GIFT  OF 


of  /m 


SPRING  STREET 


SPRING  STREET 


A  STORY  OF  LOS  ANGELES 


JAMES  H.  RICHARDSON 


Published  by  the  Author  by  Special  Permission  of 

LOS  ANGELES  EVENING  HERALD 

In  Which  the  Story  First  Appeared 
in  Serial  Form 


TIMES -MIRROR  PRESS 

Los  Angeles,  Calif. 

1922 


COPYRIGHT,    1922 

BY 

EVENING    HERALD    PUBLISHING    COMPANY 

LOS    ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA 

ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 


Class   or-    1887 


Dedicated  to 
MY  WIFE 

Who  has — "watched  for  my  unworthy  sake.' 


r  • 


89  4  u 


FOREWORD 

One  day  the  editor  stopped  beside  my  desk 
and  told  me  he  wanted  me  to  write  a  novel 
about  Los  Angeles  to  appear  in  serial  form. 
Seven  weeks  later  "Spring  Street"  was  on  his 
desk.  I  was  assigned  to  write  it  as  I  would 
have  been  assigned  as  a  reporter  to  "cover"  a 
big  story. 

Writing  a  novel  to  appear  as  a  serial  in  a 
newspaper  is  vastly  different  from  writing  one 
for  publication  in  book  form.  "Spring  Street" 
was  written  primarily  as  a  serial  and  is  offered 
now  as  a  book  in  response  to  requests  by  friends 
and  from  readers  of  The  Evening  Herald. 

Let  me  say  that  I  lay  no  claim  to  being  a 
novelist  because  I  wrote  "Spring  Street."  I 
have  sufficient  pride  in  my  profession  to  desire 
to  be  known  only  as  a  reporter. 

There  are  many  to  whom  I  owe  thanks  for 
their  help  and  encouragement.  Especially  am 
I  indebted  to  Dr.  Frank  F.  Barham,  publisher 
of  The  Evening  Herald,  and  Mr.  Edwin  R. 
Collins,  Mr.  John  B.  T.  Campbell  and  Mr. 
Wesley  M.  Barr,  its  editors. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


CHAPTER  I 

TLJIS  father  was  dying. 

John  Gallant  paced  the  narrow  sun 
baked  lawn  between  the  porch  of  his  home  and 
the  street. 

Soon,  he  knew,  the  door  would  open  and  he 
would  be  called  inside.  That  would  be  the 
end.  A  sickening  feeling  of  terror  gripped 
him  and  his  heart  pounded  in  his  chest. 

He  took  a  step  toward  the  door,  which  was 
really  an  involuntary  movement.  No,  he 
couldn't  go  in  there.  The  doctor  was  in  a  chair 
at  the  bedside,  watching,  helpless.  He  would 
only  look  up  and  say  again  that  there  was  noth 
ing  to  do  but  wait. 

For  a  moment  he  hated  that  doctor  because 
he  sat  there  without  doing  a  thing.  His  brain, 
inflamed  and  racked  by  the  strain,  throbbed  in 
his  head.  He  had  a  distorted  idea  that  the 
doctor  was  making  a  coldly  scientific  observa 
tion  of  his  father's  death,  perhaps  taking  men 
tal  notes  for  a  paper  to  be  read  to  a  class  of 
medical  students. 

He  had  tried  waiting  inside.  That  Mrs. 
Sprockett  from  across  the  street,  who  was  with 
his  mother,  had  whispered  to  him  to  be  brave. 
His  mother  sat  very  still  in  her  rocking  chair, 


12  SPRING  STREET 

her  head  bowed,  her  hand  pressed  to  her  eyes. 
He  knew  she  was  praying.  Unable  to  hold 
himself,  he  had  dropped  at  her  feet  and  buried 
his  head  in  her  lap.  He  had  cried  brokenly, 
his  shoulders  heaving  spasmodically,  and  he 
had  felt  her  hand  gently  touching  his  head. 

They  had  not  spoken,  but  the  feeling  that 
she  was  suffering  with  him  had  assuaged  his 
agony  until  that  Mrs.  Sprockett  had  touched 
him  on  the  shoulder  and  spoken  to  him. 

"Do  be  brave,  John,  you  must  be  a  man 
now,"  she  had  said,  and  he  had  rushed  outside 
to  begin  his  pacing,  back  and  forth,  back  and 
forth. 

He  began  his  walking  again,  ten  steps  across 
and  ten  steps  back.  At  first  he  strode  furiously, 
almost  running,  uttering  queer  little  sounds  like 
a  whimpering  animal,  tears  streaming  down  his 
cheeks.  Now  his  throat  was  swollen  and  dry 
and  his  eyes  smarted. 

A  few  doors  down  the  street  children  shouted 
at  some  wild  game.  Suddenly  they  stopped 
and  he  knew  that  they  had  been  told  to  be 
quiet.  He  thought  he  saw  their  frightened 
faces  as  they  were  told  that  Mr.  Gallant  was 
dying.  He  remembered  how  he  had  been 
shocked  to  dumbness  years  before  when  some 
one  in  the  neighborhood  had  died. 

A  boy  passed  on  the  sidewalk  and  looked  at 
him  with  widened  eyes  and  gaping  mouth.  He 


SPRING  STREET  13 

hurried  by  as  though  he  feared  that  death 
might  steal  out  from  the  Gallant  house  and 
take  him. 

Somewhere  across  the  street  a  phonograph 
started  blaring  out  a  jazz  piece.  Then  it 
stopped  as  suddenly  as  the  shouts  of  the  chil 
dren.  A  lot  they  cared,  he  thought.  All  his 
father's  death  meant  to  them  was  the  irritation 
of  stopping  the  phonograph. 

The  blind  on  a  window  of  the  house  next 
door  was  pulled  to  one  side,  emitting  a  shaft 
of  light  across  the  path  he  paced.  A  head — 
the  head  of  the  little  girl  his  father  had  so 
often  petted  as  he  strode  up  the  walk  when  he 
came  home  from  work — shut  off  the  light.  He 
heard  a  scuffle  of  feet  and  she  was  pulled  from 
the  window. 

Mrs.  Sprockett's  husband,  in  his  shirt 
sleeves,  came  over  and  stood  on  the  sidewalk. 

"Is  Maude  in  there  with  your  mother?"  he 
asked. 

John  looked  at  him,  without  a  word. 

"Beg  your  pardon,"  said  Mrs.  Sprockett's 
husband,  backing  away.  "She  didn't  say — 
didn't  leave  any  word — and  the  baby — and — " 

The  crying  of  the  Sprockett  baby  could  be 
heard  faintly. 

"I  didn't  think— I— I "  and  Mrs. 

Sprockett's  husband  turned  awkwardly  and 
went  back  to  the  house. 


14  SPRING  STREET 

Everything  was  quiet,  so  quiet  that  it  startled 
him.  A  mocking  bird  warbled  in  a  tree  by  the 
porch.  He  remembered  his  father  saying  one 
night  that  there  was  no  music  sweeter  than  its 
song. 

Fragments  of  memory  came  to  him  vividly. 
His  father  pulling  him  from  under  a  bed  the 
night  he  was  punished  for  stealing  apples  at 
the  corner  grocery  store.  His  father  reading 
David  Copperfield  to  him  and  their  mutual  re 
joicing  when  Betsy  Trotwood  lectured  David's 
firm  stepfather.  His  father  closing  his  eyes 
and  leaning  back  and  a  soft  smile  on  his  lips 
as  his  mother  played  "Annie  Laurie." 

These  thoughts  carried  him  away  so  that  he 
stopped  quickly  when  they  left  him.  For  a 
moment  he  could  not  realize  that  death  was 
taking  his  father.  He  felt  he  had  been  out  of 
his  head,  walking  out  there,  that  it  was  all  a 
horrible  nightmare.  He  almost  began  to  laugh 
and  dash  up  to  the  door  to  find  things  as  they 
always  had  been.  He  staggered  back  with  an 
impulse  to  shout  in  his  agony  as  realization 
came  back  to  him. 

A  wild  hope  seized  him.  He  had  been  walk 
ing  there  for  hours,  for  days  it  seemed,  and 
the  door  had  not  opened.  Perhaps  the  doctor 
was  wrong,  after  all.  Perhaps  his  father  had 
rallied  strength  and  would  live.  His  heart 
beat  exultingly.  Perhaps 


SPRING  STREET  15 

And  then  the  door  opened. 

***** 

He  knew  that  his  father  had  left  them  noth 
ing  but  what  was  in  the  house.  He  had  not 
spoken  to  his  mother  about  it.  He  had  been 
beside  her  bed  until  after  dawn  when,  with  a 
gentle  sigh,  she  had  slipped  off  into  a  merciful 
sleep. 

Mrs.  Sprockett,  who  left  them  only  for  a 
few  minutes  in  the  morning,  he  thanked  with 
a  guilty  feeling  of  having  not  appreciated  what 
she  had  done.  The  doctor  had  spoken  to  him 
kindly. 

"My  boy,"  he  said,  "this  comes  to  all  of  us. 
Your  father  passed  as  gently  as  he  lived.  Re 
member,  there's  no  sorrow  nor  suffering  where 
he  has  gone  and — be  good  to  your  mother." 

It  was  not  until  after  the  funeral  that  John 
and  his  mother  talked  of  the  life  before  them. 
He  told  her  that  they  would  not  have  to  leave 
their  little  home,  that  he  would  quit  school  and 
find  work  so  they  could  go  on  together. 

"Dearest,  dearest  mother,  you  shall  be  with 
me  always,"  he  said  to  her.  But  she  replied: 

"We  owe  a  heavy  debt,  John,  that  must  be 
paid  at  once." 

He  saw  she  was  worrying  over  the  expense 
of  his  father's  funeral.  He  knew  how  sensitive 
she  was  about  debts. 


16  SPRING  STREET 

UI  can  get  money  somewhere,  dearest 
mother,"  he  said.  "Don't  worry." 

"But  where?" 

"Somewhere — I'll  get  it.  Please,  oh,  please 
don't  think  about  it  any  more." 

He  could  tell,  however,  that  she  could  not 
put  it  out-  of  her  mind.  There  was  a  look 
about  her  eyes  that  told  him  it  weighed  upon 
her.  It  disappeared  when  he  held  her  in  his 
arms  and  comforted  her;  she  tried  bravely  to 
hide  it  from  him,  but  it  was  there,  in  his  mind, 
haunting  him. 

He  came  to  his  decision  about  the  money 
for  the  funeral  director  quickly.  He  told  her 
he  was  going  to  look  for  work  and  went  to 
George  Blake  at  his  Spring  street  gymnasium. 
Blake,  an  instructor  in  boxing,  had  seen  him 
spar  in  amateur  bouts  and  had  taken  him  in 
tow.  He  boxed  because  he  liked  it;  never  with 
a  thought  of  ever  fighting  for  money.  Only  a 
month  before  he  had  refused  an  offer  of  a  bout 
at  Jack  Doyle's  Vernon  arena. 

"George,"  he  said,  "can  you  get  me  a  bout 
at  Vernon?" 

"What's  the  big  idea?"  asked  Blake  with  a 
smile. 

"I  need  the  money." 

"How  soon?" 

"As  soon  as  I  can  get  it." 

"I'll  see  Wad  Wadhams,   tonight,"    Blake 


SPRING  STREET  17 

said.  "If  there's  a  place  on  the  bill  I'll  get  it 
for  you." 

The  next  day  Blake  called  him  to  the  gym 
nasium. 

"You'll  go  on  in  the  preliminaries,"  he  said. 
"Two  hundred  if  you  win,  a  hundred  if  you 
draw  and  fifty  if  you  lose.  How's  that?" 

"That  means  I  must  win,"  John  said. 

In  his  pocket  as  he  spoke  was  the  funeral 
director's  bill  for  $200. 

"You'd  better  get  to  work  right  now,  then," 
cautioned  Blake.  "You're  matched  with  a 
tough  boy,  but  if  you're  in  any  sort  of  shape  at 
all  you  should  come  out  on  top." 

They  went  to  work.  As  he  roughed  it  with 
the  young  fellows  Blake  sent  against  him  he 
thought  of  his  mother.  Perhaps,  after  it  was 
all  over  and  their  debt  had  been  paid,  he  would 
tell  her  how  he  got  the  money.  He  couldn't 
tell  her  now.  She  had  even  tried  to  persuade 
him  to  stop  boxing  for  exercise  and  if  she 
thought  for  a  moment  that  he  had  arranged 
to  fight  for  money 

A  fist  thudded  against  his  jaw.  Absorbed  in 
his  thoughts  he  had  left  an  opening  and  the 
boy  in  the  ring  with  him  was  quick  to  take 
advantage  of  it.  Instinctively  he  "covered," 
bending  over  with  his  arms  wrapped  around 
his  head  and  body  for  protection  until  his  brain 
cleared. 


18  SPRING  STREET 

Then,  savagely,  he  tore  into  the  boy  before 
him,  jabbing  him  swiftly  with  his  left  glove  and 
suddenly  sending  over  his  right  with  a  snap. 
The  boy  sank  to  the  floor. 

"That's  enough,  Gallant,"  admonished 
Blake.  "Take  it  easy." 

He  lifted  the  boy  to  his  feet. 

As  he  pounded  at  the  punching  bag  a  few 
minutes  later  he  promised  himself  that  this 
would  be  his  one  and  only  fight  in  a  ring,  for 
his  mother's  sake. 

That  night,  when  he  left  for  Vernon,  he  told 
her  his  first  deliberate  lie. 

***** 

He  was  in  his  corner.  A  scrawny  youth 
with  a  twisted  nose,  a  jersey  sweater  and  a 
husky  voice  was  tying  on  his  gloves. 

"Wot's  your  name,  kid?"   ' 

The  announcer  was  bending  over  him. 

"Gallant,"  he  answered,  after  hesitating. 
The  announcer  turned  and  crossed  to  the  op 
posite  corner  of  the  ring  and  John's  eyes  fol 
lowed  him.  He  saw  his  opponent,  a  thick- 
shouldered  Mexican,  with  flashing  black  eyes, 
gleaming  white  teeth,  a  broad,  deep  chest  taper 
ing  to  a  slender  waist. 

The  Mexican  returned  his  appraising  look, 
and  sneered. 

Arc  lamps  threw  a  heated  white  light  down 
to  the  canvas  floor  of  the  ring.  The  chatter 


SPRING  STREET  19 

and  rumble  of  voices  came  up  from  the  crowd. 
He  looked  out  past  the  ropes  and  saw  faces — 
hundreds  of  them — dimly  through  clouds  of 
tobacco  smoke.  He  could  only  distinguish 
those  at  the  ringside.  He  saw  Charlie  Chaplin, 
the  famous  film  comedian,  looking  at  him. 
There  was  Jack  Dempsey,  the  world's  ring 
champion,  towering  up  in  his  seat.  There 
was 

"Come  on,  kid,"  the  announcer  was  calling 
to  him  from  the  center  of  the  ring. 

John  dropped  his  bathrobe  from  his  shoul 
ders  and  went  forward. 

"On  my  right — the  Gallant  kid,"  shouted 
the  announcer,  pausing  for  the  laugh  that  came 
up  from  the  crowd. 

"The  what?"  a  voice  asked. 

"The  Gallant  kid,  he  calls  himself,"  shouted 
back  the  announcer.  "On  my  left — Battling 
Rodriguez.  One  hundred  and  thirty-five 
pounds." 

John  went  back  to  his  corner.  He  rested  his 
gloved  hands  on  the  ropes  and  scraped  the 
soles  of  his  shoes  into  a  box  of  rosin  shoved 
beneath  his  feet  by  the  twisted  nose  youth,  who 
had  a  towel  thrown  over  his  shoulder  and  a 
pail  of  water  near  him. 

Blake  pulled  himself  up  beside  him. 

"Remember,  John,  keep  cool  and  keep  jab 
bing  that  left  in  his  face,"  he  said. 


20  SPRING  STREET 

John  looked  out  at  the  crowd.  A  thought 
of  his  mother  flashed  into  his  head  and  he 
seemed  to  see  her  face  in  the  blue  haze  of 
smoke. 

"He'll  try  rushing  you — he  thinks  he's  an 
other  Joe  Rivers,"  said  Blake.  "Wait  for  a 
chance  to  soak  him." 

The  gong  sounded  and,  whirling  around,  he 
went  to  the  center  of  the  ring.  The  Battler 
came  dancing  out  to  meet  him.  They  touched 
gloves  for  a  handshake  and  each  took  a  step 
back.  The  Battler  moved  his  gloves  in  quick 
little  circles  and  the  noise  from  the  crowd 
stopped.  John  forgot  everything  else,  the 
fight  was  on. 

The  Battler  feinted,  swaying  his  body  from 
side  to  side,  and  came  at  him.  He  shot  out  his 
left  hand,  jabbing  at  the  swarthy  face  of  the 
Mexican.  His  fist  struck  only  the  air  and  the 
Battler,  his  lips  drawn  back,  his  eyes  blazing, 
crashed  into  him. 

A  fist  pounded  into  his  stomach  and  another 
ripped  into  his  face.  He  heard  a  wild  shout 
from  the  crowd  and  the  Mexican  jumped  back, 
smiling.  A  trickle  of  blood  dropped  to  his 
cheek  from  a  cut  over  his  eye.  He  heard  the 
Battler's  seconds  shout  to  their  man  to  "tear 
into"  him.  He  watched,  his  left  extended,  his 
right  close  to  his  body. 

The  Battler  rushed  again,  swaying  from  the 


SPRING  STREET  21 

hips.  John's  left  fist  found  its  mark.  He 
jabbed — once,  twice,  three  times — and  lashed 
out  with  his  right.  The  blow  glanced  off  the 
Mexican's  shoulders  and  they  clinched.  He 
felt  the  Battler's  strength  in  that  clinch  and  he 
realized  it  was  more  than  his.  The  referee 
called  "Break!"  and  they  pushed  away  from 
each  other. 

He  must  keep  his  head.  The  Mexican  was 
fast;  he  pounced  like  a  panther.  Blake's  warn 
ing  came  back  to  him — "keep  cool  and  wait." 
That  was  it,  wait,  wait  for  a  chance  to  land  a 
blow  that  would  end  the  fight. 

He  shot  out  his  left  again  as  the  Battler 
came  at  him.  It  missed  and  the  strength  he 
put  behind  it  carried  his  head  forward.  Like 
a  flash  the  Mexican's  right  crashed  to  his  jaw. 
John  stumbled  to  his  knees.  The  referee  was 
over  him. 

"One  —  two  —  three  —  four  —  five  — 
six " 

He  felt  his  head  slowly  clearing.  What  a 
punch  that  Mexican  had!  He  must  get  to  his 
feet  and  cover. 

"Seven— eight " 

He  found  strength  to  jump  up.  He  saw 
nothing  before  him.  He  heard  shouting,  miles 
away,  it  seemed.  His  arms  were  heavy  when 
he  lifted  them  to  his  head.  He  tried  to  set 


22  SPRING  STREET 

himself.  His  body  reeled  as  the  Battler 
pounded  him,  his  head,  his  face,  his  back. 

Back  across  the  ring  he  staggered  until  he 
went  down  again. 

"One — two — three — four — — "  the  referee's 
arm  waved  up  and  down  in  front  of  his  face. 
His  arms,  holding  up  his  body  from  the  floor, 
began  to  sag.  Blood  poured  from  the  cut  over 
his  eye.  Faintly  he  saw  the  sturdy  brown  legs 
of  the  Mexican  dancing  before  him. 

"Five — six — seven " 

He  pushed  himself  up  to  his  knees. 

"Eight— nine " 

He  got  to  his  feet,  his  arms  hanging  loose 
at  his  sides.  The  Battler  swung  forward  on  his 
toes  for  another  rush.  He  tried  to  lift  his 
hands.  They  were  like  dead  things.  He  tried 
to  run  out  of  the  way  of  that  tornado  of  blows 
and  he  tottered  back  against  the  ropes. 

The  gong  rang  and  saved  him. 

He  sank  into  the  canvas  camp-chair  that  was 
pushed  under  him  in  his  corner  and  gulped  at 
the  wind  fanned  into  his  heaving  lungs  by  the 
towel  flapped  up  and  down  by  the  twisted-nose 
second.  A  sharp  pain  as  the  cut  over  his  eye 
was  burned  with  caustic  brightened  his  brain. 

"Has  he  had  enough?"  he  heard  the  referee 
ask  Blake,  who  was  behind  him. 

"No,  give  me  a  chance,"  he  gasped. 

"Let  him  try  another  one,"  Blake  said. 


SPRING  STREET  23 

The  pounding  of  his  heart  slowed  and  his 
head  cleared  so  that  he  could  make  out  the 
figure  of  the  Battler  leaning  back  in  his  chair, 
his  arms  spread  along  the  ropes,  smiling. 

A  second  massaged  his  arms  and  he  felt  life 
coming  back  into  them.  Blake  whispered  in 
his  ear : 

"One  punch  will  end  that  Mex.  boy;  try  to 
land  it  this  time." 

John  nodded.  He  must  land  it.  He  MUST 
WIN.  For  the  first  time  since  the  fight  started 
he  thought  of  why  he  was  there.  If  he  could 
only  rest  here  a  minute  more — just  until  his 
head  cleared  a  little — the  gong  rang. 

He  rushed  and  saw  a  look  of  surprise  cross 
the  Battler's  face  as  he  dodged  to  one  side.  He 
hooked  at  the  black,  shaggy  head  with  his  left 
and  felt  his  fist  crack  against  the  Battler's 
ear.  He  swung  his  right  with  all  the  strength 
he  had  in  him  and  grunted  as  he  felt  it  sink 
into  the  Battler's  stomach.  He  stepped  back. 
He  heard  shouting.  He  saw  the  Mexican 
double  over  and  cover  his  head  with  his  arms. 

"Atta  boy!"  someone  in  the  crowd  yelled. 

The  Battler  uncovered  slowly.  He  went  in 
again,  jabbing  with  his  left.  It  struck  the  Bat 
tler's  thick  arms  wrapped  around  his  head. 
With  a  spring  like  a  cat  the  Mexican  was  on 
him.  He  shot  up  his  right  and  it  pounded  into 
the  Battler's  ribs.  He  tried  to  wrestle  himself 


24  SPRING  STREET 

out  of  the  clinch  into  which  the  Mexican  had 
thrown  himself. 

The  referee  tore  them  apart. 

"None  of  that,"  he  said  to  the  Battler. 
"Stop  holding  in  the  clinches." 

The  end  came  a  minute  later.  They  were 
roughing  it  in  the  center  of  the  ring  and  the 
crowd  was  on  its  feet,  howling.  The  Battler 
swayed  far  to  the  right,  the  glove  of  his  right 
hand  almost  touching  the  floor.  John  brought 
his  guard  down,  fearful  that  the  punch  the 
Mexican  was  swinging  was  aimed  for  his  body. 
He  started  a  counter-blow  with  his  right  and 
the  Battler's  fist  rose  high  and  crashed  against 
his  jaw. 

A  white  flash  blinded  him  as  he  dropped. 
He  was  down  for  the  count  of  eight.  He  was 
"out  on  his  feet"  when  he  struggled  up  again. 
He  smiled  feebly  and  pawed  in  front  of  him 
with  his  left.  The  Battler  brushed  it  aside  and 
as  John  fell  forward  in  a  last  desperate  effort 
to  clinch,  his  right  went  over.  The  smack  of 
the  Mexican's  fist  as  it  landed  the  knockout 
punch  sounded  like  the  slap  of  a  paddle  on 
water. 

"Eight — nine — you're  out!" 

They  carried  him  to  his  corner,  the  Battler 
on  one  side,  the  referee  on  the  other.  As 
through  a  fog  he  saw  the  Mexican  dance  back 
to  his  corner  to  be  received  joyously  by  his 


SPRING  STREET  25 

seconds.  He  saw  Jack  Dempsey  looking  up 
at  him,  nodding  his  head  and  smiling.  He  saw 
a  terribly  anxious  look  on  a  pale,  strained  face 
he  slowly  recognized  as  that  of  Charlie  Chap 
lin. 

He  closed  his  eyes.  If  they  would  only  let 
him  alone  and  stop  throwing  water  on  him. 
He  could  not  see  out  of  one  of  his  eyes.  They 
tore  the  gloves  from  his  hands  and  the  sharp 
odor  of  smelling  salts  bit  into  his  nostrils.  His 
head  ached,  his  lungs  burned. 

"Come  on,  kid,  get  back  to  da  dressin' 
room,"  a  husky  voice  said. 

He  pulled  himself  to  his  feet.  He  was 
whipped.  His  only  chance  to  get  money  to 
pay  for  his  father's  funeral  was  gone.  So 
weak  that  his  body  shook  and  his  legs  trem 
bled,  hysterical  tears  sprang  to  his  eyes  and  he 
sobbed — gasping  sobs  that  choked  him. 

The  hot  tears  smarted  like  salt  in  the  cuts 
on  his  cheek  as  he  stumbled  up  the  aisle  toward 
the  dressing  rooms. 

Someone  came  running  up  behind  him.  A 
hand  grasped  his  arm  and  he  heard  a  voice 
say: 

"Just  a  minute,  my  boy,  I  want  to  talk  to 
you." 


CHAPTER  II 

TJTE  LOOKED  up  into  the  whimsically  comic 
A  A  face  of  Charlie  Murray,  famous  in  film 
farces — with  funny  features  and  gruff  ways, 
but  a  heart  as  soft  as  a  mother's.  With  no 
idea  to  whom  he  was  speaking,  John  Gallant 
blurted : 

"Please,  not  now — I  can't." 

"Just  a  word  with  you,  son;  come  along,  let's 
get  back  to  your  dressing  room,"  said  the  other 
without  taking  his  arm  from  his  shoulder. 

As  they  left  the  arena  they  heard  the  gong 
sound  for  the  opening  round  of  another  bout. 
It  brought  back  to  John  the  bitterness  of  his 
loss  in  defeat  and  his  chagrin.  He  had  made 
a  mess  of  things.  How  could  he  go  back  to 
his  mother  with  his  face  battered  and  swollen 
and  without  the  $200  he  had  expected  to  take 
to  her  to  pay  for  his  father's  funeral? 

He  flung  himself  on  a  bench  in  his  dressing 
room  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  He  sat 
for  a  time  until  he  had  choked  back  his  hys 
terical  crying  and  when  he  looked  up  he  saw 
the  stranger  who  had  stopped  him  in  the  aisle 
gazing  at  him  intently.  He  saw  something  in 
the  mild  blue  eyes  of  this  man  that  overcame 
the  momentary  feeling  of  shame  he  felt  for 


SPRING  STREET  27 

having  given  way  to  his  bitterness  and  despair. 

"What's  your  trouble,  son?"  the  stranger 
asked. 

He  sat  silent. 

"Out  with  it,  son,  something's  wrong  some 
where  and  I  may  be  able  to  help  you." 

"Who  are  you?"  John  asked. 

"I'm  Charlie  Murray — if  that  means  any 
thing  to  you.  And,  believe  me,  son,  I  know 
that  something  beside  the  licking  you  got  out 
there  is  worrying  you.  That's  why  I  followed 
you  here.  Let's  have  it;  come  on,  tell  me  what's 
wrong.  It'll  make  you  feel  better." 

Before  he  really  knew  it,  John  was  telling 
him  his  story. 

"That's  the  reason  I  made  a  fool  of  my 
self,"  he  said.  "I  couldn't  help  crying  like 
that.  I  guess  I  was  too  far  gone.  I  don't 
know  what  to  do  now.  It  will  break  my  moth 
er's  heart  when  she  sees  me  in  this  condition. 
It  would  have  helped  if  I  could  have  handed 
her  enough  to  pay  the  funeral  expenses. 

"I  don't  know  why  I've  told  you  all  this. 
Making  more  of  a  fool  of  myself,  I  suppose." 

Murray  listened  to  it  all,  silently.  Then 
he  rose  and  went  to  the  door. 

"Oh,  Murphy,"  he  called,  putting  his  head 
out  the  dressing  room  door. 

The    youth    with    the    twisted    nose    whom 


28  SPRING  STREET 

John    remembered    as    his    second    answered 
Murray's  call. 

"Fix  this  boy  up,  Murphy,"  said  Murray. 
"Patch  up  his  face  the  best  you  can  and  keep 
him  here  until  I  get  back.  Understand,  keep 
him  here  until  I  get  back.  Don't  let  him  out 
of  your  sight." 

"I  heardja,  boss,  I  heardja,"  said  Murphy. 

And    Murray    hurried    out,    leaving    John 
wondering,  in  Murphy's  hands. 
***** 

It  was  just  before  the  main  event  that  Mur 
ray  came  down  the  aisle  and  climbed  into  the 
ring,  brushing  the  referee  announcer,  seconds 
and  others  into  the  corners.  He  stood  in  the 
center  of  the  ring  and  held  up  his  hand  for 
silence.  The  crowd  quieted. 

"What  is  it,  Charlie?"  someone  shouted. 

"It's  this,  boys,"  he  said.  "I've  just  had  a 
talk  with  the  Gallant  kid,  who  was  knocked 
kicking  a  few  minutes  ago  by  Battling  Rod 
riguez.  You  saw  the  fight  he  put  up  and  you 
know  it's  only  a  good,  game  kid  that  can  fight 
like  that. 

"I  don't  know  how  many  of  you  saw  it,  but 
the  Gallant  kid — that's  his  real  name,  John 
Gallant — was  crying  when  he  went  out  of  this 
ring  and  he  wasn't  bawling  because  he  got 
licked,  either. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  he  told  me  back  there 


SPRING  STREET  29 

in  the  dressing  rooms.  Do  you  know  why  he 
was  here  fighting,  tonight?  He  was  here  to 
get  enough  money  to  pay  for  his  father's  fu 
neral.  He  had  to  have  the  money  given  to 
the  winner  and  he  lost.  He  didn't  tell  his 
poor  little  mother  he  was  coming  out  here. 
He  wanted  to  surprise  her. 

"Now,  boys,  the  only  surprise  he'll  take 
home  to  her  is  a  battered  face  unless  you  want 
to  surprise  him  with — " 

A  silver  dollar  spun  through  the  smoke- 
filled  air  and  hit  the  canvas  at  Murray's  feet. 
That  started  it.  For  a  full  two  minutes  the 
air  was  thick  with  flying  coins.  They  clinked 
and  rolled  around  in  the  ring.  Bills  weighted 
with  coins  caromed  along  the  canvas  floor. 

Murray  and  a  few  others  collected  the  money 
and  counted  it,  standing  in  the  ring. 

"Is  it  enough?"  asked  a  voice  from  the 
crowd. 

Murray  looked  up  with  a  broad  smile.  His 
hat,  held  in  his  hands,  was  brimming  with 
the  money  picked  from  the  floor  of  the  ring. 

"Five  hundred  and  fifty-six  dollars  and 
sixty  cents,"  he  said. 

"Where's  the  kid?"  someone  demanded. 

"That's  the  idea,  show  us  the  kid,"  shouted 
the  crowd. 

*          *          *          * 

When  John  was  brought  back  into  the  ring, 


30  SPRING  STREET 

embarrassed,  awkward,  trying  to  smile  through 
his  swollen  lips,  the  "house"  was  quiet.  Mur 
phy  pushed  him  to  the  center,  where  Murray 
was  waiting  for  him. 

"That's  for  you,  Mr.  Gallant,  with  the  com 
pliments  of  the  boys  out  here  who  know  a  good, 
game  kid  when  they  see  one  and  whose  hearts 
are  always  in  the  right  place,"  he  said,  hand 
ing  him  the  hat  full  of  money. 

He  felt  the  tears  coming  back  in  his  eyes. 

"I  don't — I  can't "  he  said  hoarsely. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  can,"  interrupted  Murray. 
"You  take  it  and  forget  about  it." 

The  crowd  cheered.  A  thick-shouldered 
individual  pushed  himself  through  the  ropes 
into  the  ring. 

"For  the  keed,  Meester  Murray,"  said  the 
newcomer,  handing  him  a  $20  bill.  "Hee's  a 
gude  keed,  maybe  I  help." 

It  was  Battling  Rodriguez.  He  crossed 
over  and  taking  John's  hand  grinned  out  at 
the  crowd. 

John  felt  the  tears  coming  again  and  was 
thankful  when  Murray  led  him  to  a  corner  and 
helped  him  down  out  of  the  ring. 

"One  of  the  newspaper  men  wants  to  speak 
to  you,"  he  said.  "Here's  your  man,  Morton." 

He  shook  hands  with  the  newspaper  man. 

"You're  not  a  fighter  by  profession,  though 


SPRING  STREET  31 

you're  game  enough  to  be  a  champion.     How 
are  you  fixed  for  a  job?"  asked  Morton. 

"I  need  one,"  John  replied. 

"Tell  you  what  you  do,  then,"  said  the  other, 
who  seemed  to  take  John's  answer  for  granted. 
"You  come  down  and  see  me  tomorrow  and 
I'll  see  if  I  can't  find  something  for  you  to  do. 
How  would  you  like  to  get  into  newspaper 
work?" 

How  would  he  like  it?  John  felt  that 
nothing  in  the  world  would  he  like  better. 

"Tomorrow,  then,  ask  for  me,"  said  Mor 
ton,  turning  to  watch  the  two  boxers  who  en 
tered  the  ring  to  fight  the  main  event. 

As  he  went  up  the  aisle  men  reached  out 
and  shook  hands  with  him.  Some  of  them 
dropped  money  into  the  hat  brimming  with 
bills  and  coins  that  he  still  held  in  his  hand. 
He  filled  his  pockets  with  the  money  and 
handed  the  hat  to  Murphy  to  be  returned  to 
that  prince  of  men,  Charlie  Murray. 
***** 

With  the  money  given  him  by  the  crowd, 
the  $20  bill  Battling  Rodriguez  added  to  it  and 
the  $50  he  received  as  the  loser's  end  of  the 
purse  in  his  bout,  he  had  more  than  $625  as 
he  boarded  the  car  from  Vernon  to  the  city 
to  return  home.  His  happiness  was  dimmed, 
however,  by  the  thought  of  facing  his  mother, 
who,  he  knew,  would  be  waiting  up  for  him. 


32  SPRING  STREET 

When  he  transferred  at  Seventh  and  Spring 
streets  and  boarded  another  car  a  woman 
gasped  at  the  sight  of  his  face.  Murphy  had 
used  every  trick  known  to  a  professional  second 
to  doctor  his  battered  features,  but  nothing 
could  hide  the  swollen  lips,  the  cut  over  his  eye 
and  the  eye  that  was  puffed  so  that  there  was 
only  a  thin  slit  between  the  lids  to  see  through. 

He  decided  that  it  would  be  easier  upon 
his  mother  for  him  to  tell  her  everything. 
Then  it  would  be  over  and  done  with.  She 
would  not  worry  then  as  she  would  if  he  told 
her  some  impossible  story. 

She  was  in  her  chair  in  the  living  room  when 
he  returned  home.  He  threw  himself  at  her 
feet. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "please." 

"My  boy,"  she  said,  waiting  for  him  to  lift 
his  face  from  her  lap. 

He  felt  he  could  not  raise  his  head.  They 
sat  silent  for  a  while  and  then  she  put  her 
hands  on  each  side  of  his  head  and  lifted  his 
face  to  hers.  He  shut  his  eyes.  He  could 
not  stand  to  see  her  look  as  she  saw  his  con 
dition. 

He  waited,  his  battered  face  upturned.  It 
seemed  hours  that  she  held  his  face,  without  a 
word.  Then  she  leaned  forward  and  her  lips 
touched  his  forehead  gently  in  a  kiss. 


SPRING  STREET  33 

"My  boy,"  she  said  and  her  arms  went 
around  his  neck. 

They  rose  at  last  and  she  bathed  his  wounds, 
smiling  through  her  tears.  When  he  kissed 
her  goodnight  she  whispered  again,  "My  boy." 
He  knew  he  was  forgiven  and  he  went  to  his 
room  thinking  of  the  adventure  waiting  for 
him  in  the  morning  when  he  would  meet  Mor 
ton  and  begin  work  in  a  newspaper  office. 
***** 

He  was  bewildered  when  he  entered  the  edi 
torial  department  of  the  afternoon  newspaper 
of  which  Morton  was  sporting  editor.  Never 
had  he  seen  such  a  busy  place. 

Telegraph  instruments  and  typewriters 
clicked  and  clattered  incessantly.  Although  it 
was  broad  day  outside,  electric  lights  burned 
brightly  over  desks.  The  floor  was  covered 
with  discarded  newspapers  and  scraps  and  balls 
of  copy  paper. 

Men  and  boys  hurried  from  desk  to  desk, 
back  and  forth,  in  and  out  of  swinging  doors. 
As  he  watched  them,  wondering  if  they  really 
knew  what  they  were  doing  themselves,  they 
reminded  him  of  ants  around  an  ant  hill.  He 
was  thrilled  by  the  life  and  energy  of  the 
place,  the  speed  and  earnestness  of  the  work 
ers. 

At  a  flat-topped  desk  over  which  was  a  sign 
with  the  words  "City  Editor"  sat  a  fat,  bald- 


34  SPRING  STREET 

headed  man  wearing  a  green  eye-shade,  who 
spoke  over  his  shoulder  to  a  younger  man  at 
another  desk  close  to  his.  This  younger  man 
wore  a  telephone  headgear,  receivers  over  both 
ears,  and  punched  at  the  typewriter  before  him 
with  the  first  finger  of  each  hand.  John  saw 
he  was  writing  what  someone  was  dictating  to 
him  oVer  the  telephone. 

"T,  like  in  Thomas;  I  like  in  Isaac;  P  like 
in  Peter,"  the  man  with  the  headgear  shouted 
into  the  mouthpiece  of  an  extension  close  to 
his  face. 

John  tried  to  fathom  what  the  man  with  the 
headgear  was  talking  about  and  it  finally 
dawned  on  him  that  he  was  making  certain  of 
the  spelling  of  the  word  "tip,"  dictated  to  him, 
by  repeating  the  letters  as  they  appeared  in 
other  words. 

He  caught  sight  of  Morton  at  a  desk  on  the 
far  side  of  the  big,  high-ceilinged  room  and 
crossed  over,  weaving  his  way  through  a  laby 
rinth  of  desks,  chairs  and  tables.  Morton, 
who  had  been  glancing  over  a  newspaper, 
looked  up  as  he  approached. 

"Well,  if  it  isn't  the  Gallant  kid!"  he  ex- 
claimed.  "I'd  almost  forgotten  all  about  you. 
Sit  down." 

John  sat  down  while  Morton  questioned 
him.  No,  he  had  never  done  any  writing  ex 
cept  a  little  for  his  school  paper.  Yes,  he'd 


SPRING  STREET  35 

like  to  start  in  as  a  reporter.  It  didn't  make 
much  difference  how  much  he  was  paid  as  long 
as  he  could  get  started. 

"All  right,  then,"  said  Morton,  rising. 
"We'll  go  over  and  see  P.  Q.,  but  don't  you 
ever  blame  him  for  getting  you  started  in  this 
game." 

The  sporting  editor  led  him  to  the  fat,  bald- 
headed  man  with  the  green  eye-shade. 

"P.  Q.,"  he  said. 

The  city  editor  looked  up. 

"Here's  the  young  fellow  I  was  telling  you 
about  this  morning;  name's  John  Gallant." 

"P.  Q." — John  afterward  learned  that  those 
were  his  initials,  uniquely  symbolical  of  his 
perpetual  order  to  reporters  to  be  "pretty 
quick"  in  their  work — looked  at  the  marks 
on  John's  face  left  by  the  fists  of  Battling 
Rodriguez. 

"Fighting  face,  all  right,"  he  said.  "Well, 
suppose  you  go  to  work." 

He  reached  back  to  his  desk  and  brought  up 
a  handful  of  clippings  from  a  newspaper  from 
which  he  selected  a  few  short  ones. 

"Grab  a  typewriter  and  rewrite  these,"  he 
said,  handing  the  clippings  to  John.  "Keep 
'em  short.  Twenty-five  words  each.  Remem 
ber  that  always.  Keep  everything  short. 
Keep  your  eyes  and  ears  open  and  read  the 
papers.  Read  everything  in  them.  Now  get 


36  SPRING  STREET 

over  there  and  start  writing  and  I'll  call  you 
when  I  need  you." 

John  knew  that  as  long  as  he  lived  he  would 
never  forget  that  first  day  in  newspaper  work. 
He  rewrote  the  clippings  carefully,  counting 
the  words  to  make  certain  that  they  did  not 
exceed  the  twenty-five  ordered  by  P.  Q.  He 
had  done  some  typewriting  at  school  and  prac 
ticed  more  by  filling  page  after  page  of  copy 
paper  with  the  old  favorite  beginner's  sentence, 
"Now  is  the  time  for  all  good  men  to  come  to 
the  aid  of  the  party,"  and  its  twin,  "The  quick, 
brown  fox  jumped  over  the  lazy  dog." 

He  watched  in  open-mouthed  wonder  at  the 
speed  with  which  the  other  reporters  —  he 
counted  himself  one  of  them — wrote  their 
stories.  He  learned  that  everything  written 
for  a  newspaper  is  a  "story,"  everything  from 
a  three-line  item  about  a  meeting  of  the  Colo 
rado  State  society  to  a  banner-line  murder. 

He  was  fascinated  by  a  reporter  whom  P.  Q. 
called  Brennan  and  who  worked  at  a  type 
writer  close  to  where  he  was  sitting.  Brennan, 
thin-faced,  about  thirty,  John  judged,  turned 
out  page  after  page  of  typewritten  copy,  stop 
ping  at  the  completion  of  each  page  to  throw 
back  his  head  and  shout :  "Boy !  Oh,  BOY !" 
at  the  ceiling.  In  response  to  this  call  a  copy 
boy  appeared  and  carried  the  page  to  P.  Q. 
As  he  worked  he  smoked  cigarettes,  lighting 


SPRING  STREET  37 

each  fresh  one  from  the  stub  of  the  one  that 
preceded  it.  These  cigarettes  he  carefully  stood 
on  end  on  the  desk  as  his  fingers  pounded  at 
the  typewriter. 

When  he  took  a  deep  inhalation  of  tobacco 
smoke  during  his  writing  Brennan  paused  and 
gazed,  dreamy-eyed,  out  into  space.  Then  sud 
denly,  he  stood  his  cigarette  on  end  again  and 
attacked  the  typewriter  keys  furiously.  John 
noticed  that  Brennan,  like  the  man  with  the 
headgear,  used  only  one  finger  of  each  hand  in 
typewriting. 

Along  in  the  afternoon,  when  he  had  stopped 
hammering  at  his  machine,  he  turned  to  find 
John  staring  at  him.  Stretching  out  his  arms, 
yawning,  he  asked: 

"Newman?" 

John  said  he  was. 

"First  time?" 

John  said  it  was. 

From  Brennan,  John  learned  many  things. 
He  learned  that  P.  Q.  had  an  unswerving  preju 
dice  against  reporters  who  used  the  touch 
system  in  typewriting. 

"He  says  they  use  a  typewriter  like  it  was 
a  piano  and  get  into  the  habit  of  not  looking 
at  what  they  are  writing,"  Brennan  explained. 
"He  says  the  touch  system  has  ruined  more  re 
porters  than  shorthand." 


38  SPRING  STREET 

"Why  shorthand?"  asked  John.     "I  thought 

)  > 

"I  know,  you  thought  every  good  reporter 
should  write  shorthand,"  said  Brennan.  "Well, 
that's  one  thing  P.  Q.  and  I  agree  on.  I've 
seen  a  lot  of  them  in  my  time  and  I've  never 
seen  a  reporter  who  wrote  shorthand  who  was 
a  real  star  man.  Writing  shorthand  kills  your 
imagination.  All  you  write  is  what  other 
people  tell  you  and  exactly  as  they  said  it. 
Somehow,  a  shorthand  man  doesn't  get  pep 
into  his  stuff,  take  it  from  me." 

John  thought  he  understood. 

"You  work  hard  and  long  in  this  game  and 
it  makes  an  old  man  of  you  before  your  time," 
Brennan  continued.  "But  it's  a  great  game. 
Once  it  gets  into  your  blood  you're  a  newspaper 
man  for  life. 

"Generally  speaking,  there  are  two  kinds 
of  reporters.  One  is  the  kind  with  a  nose  for 
news  and  without  any  particular  ability  to  write. 
The  other  is  the  kind  that  can  write  without 
being  able  to'  get  the  news  for  themselves. 
When  you  get  the  two  in  one,  a  man  who  can 
write  and  get  the  news  himself,  you've  got  a 
star,  but  they  are  few  and  far  between. 

"P.  Q.  says  once  in  a  while  that  I  can  write 
and  I  think  I'm  a  demon  news-getter  and  there 
you  are — that's  me. 

"Let  me  tell  you  how  it  is  about  writing  a 


SPRING  STREET  39 

story.  Suppose  Mary  Jones,  aged  18,  of  1559 
Fifty-Ump  street,  shop  girl,  kills  herself  and 
leaves  a  note  saying  she  did  it  because  the  man 
she  loved  threw  her  over.  It's  no  story  to 
write  it  that  'Mary  Jones,  18  years  old,  a  shop 
girl,  who  resided  at  1559  Fifty-Ump  street, 
ended  her  life  today  because  of  an  unhappy 
affair  with  an  unnamed  man.' 

"Plain  'Mary  Jones'  isn't  the  story.  Prob 
ably  only  fifty  people  in  the  city  know  her. 
What  do  the  others  care?  Not  much.  This 
is  your  story — 'An  18-year-old  girl  who 
dreamed  of  a  Prince  Charming  to  come  and 
carry  her  away  from  a  monotonous  life  behind 
a  store  counter  and  a  dreary  third-floor-back 
room,  took  her  life  in  Los  Angeles  today.' 

"Get  the  idea?  'Mary  Jones'  isn't  the  story. 
What  she  did,  how  she  lived,  what  made  her 
do  it,  that's  what  the  story  is.  That  brings 
a  throb  of  sympathy,  a  tear  perhaps,  for  her 
from  someone  who  never  heard  of  her  and  it 
helps  to  make  better  folks  and  a  better  world." 

Brennan's  way  of  talking  entranced  John. 
He  realized  there  was  more  in  reporting  than 
he  had  ever  imagined.  P.  Q.  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  him  completely  during  the  next  few 
days.  In  the  mornings  he  was  given  a  few 
short  clippings  to  rewrite  and  that  was  all. 

"Don't  worry,  he's  got  an  eye  on  you,"  Bren- 
nan  told  him.  "And  let  me  tell  you  something. 


40  SPRING  STREET 

Perhaps  you've  read  stories  about  the  cub  re 
porter  scooping  the  town,  landing  the  big  ex 
clusive  story  and  all  that.  Well,  that's  bunk. 
No  cub  reporter  ever  did  it,  not  unless  he  was 
working  against  a  bunch  of  other  cubs.  Why, 
he's  lucky  if  he  knows  what  to  do  with  a  big 
story  when  he's  got  one,  let  alone  put  it  over 
on  the  star  men  of  the  other  sheets." 

A  really  first-class  newspaper  man,  Brennan 
told  him,  was  born  and  not  made. 

"You  can  make  them  up  to  a  certain  point, 
but  no  further,"  he  said.  "And  take  it  from 
me,  the  ones  that  are  born  newspaper  men  aren't 
born  every  minute  for  Mr.  Barnum  or  anyone 
else  to  get." 

It  was  at  noon  of  the  third  day  he  had  been 
at  work  when  John  was  given  his  first  assign 
ment.  He  saw  P.  Q.  rise  from  his  chair  and 
look  over  the  reporters  at  their  desks  and  he 
heard  him  call  his  name. 

"Here,  Gallant,  I  want  you  to  do  something," 
the  city  editor  said.  "Lawn  fete — charity  stuff 
— out  at  palatial  home  of  the  Barton  Ran 
dolphs.  Society  affair.  Must  have  repre 
sentative  there.  No  story.  Society  editor 
takes  care  of  that.  Just  get  list  of  names  and 
how  much  money  they  take  in.  Here's  admis 
sion  card.  Beat  it." 

John  was  disappointed.  He  had  hoped  for 
something  with  a  touch  of  adventure.  Not 


SPRING  STREET  41 

until  he  left  the  office  did  he  fully  realize  where 
he  was  going.  Society  lawn  fete !  He  looked 
down  at  his  well  worn  suit  and  remembered 
the  patch  on  his  trousers  beneath  his  coat  tail. 


CHAPTER  III 

*  I AHE  home  of  the  Barton  Randolphs,  in 
•^  West  Adams  street,  was  one  of  the  old 
mansions  of  that  exclusive  colony  toward  which 
the  business  district  of  Los  Angeles  was  advanc 
ing,  block  by  block.  Set  back  from  the  street, 
its  immaculate  lawn  dotted  with  shade-giving 
sycamore  trees,  it  was  reminiscent  of  one  of  the 
"stately  homes  of  England."  An  iron  fence 
topped  with  spear  heads  gave  it  a  finishing 
touch  of  haughtiness. 

John  liked  to  think  of  homes  and  of  trees 
as  people.  A  stiffly  built,  sharply  roofed  house 
with  "gingerbread"  trimmings  reminded  him 
of  a  prim  old  maid.  He  imagined  that  he  knew 
what  sort  of  person  owned  a  particular  house 
simply  by  studying  it.  Houses,  especially  old 
homes,  fascinated  him  and  he  worshiped  trees 
with  the  fervor  that  inspired  Joyce  Kilmer. 

The  Barton  Randolph  home  made  John 
think  of  a  fine  old  aristocrat,  holding  aloof 
from  the  world,  conservative  and  with  a  love 
for  old  fashions  and  old  friends,  a  contempt 
for  things  that  are  modern.  As  he  stood  at 
the  gate  he  thought  that  the  mansion  was  glar 
ing  at  him  with  an  upturned  nose  and  this 
imaginative  quirk  caused  him  to  hesitate  to 
enter. 


SPRING  STREET  43 

Before  him  on  the  cool  green  lawn  moved 
groups  of  men  and  women,  the  women  in  snowy 
white.  At  intervals  there  were  tea  tables 
around  which  were  couples,  chatting  languidly. 
Servants  moved  with  quiet  efficiency  from  the 
tables  to  the  house  and  back  again.  The  shade 
spread  by  the  sycamore  trees  was  pierced  with 
shafts  of  sunlight  that  gave  the  lawn  a  mottled 
look.  It  seemed  a  place  removed  from  all  the 
world. 

Once  more  John  looked  at  his  shabby  suit, 
his  dusty,  worn  shoes.  Unconsciously  he 
tugged  at  his  coat  tail  because  of  an  instinctive 
fear  that  the  patch  was  showing.  An  idea  of 
waiting  outside  until  the  fete  was  over  came 
into  his  head. 

"It  can't  be  any  worse  than  the  wallop  Bat 
tling  Rodriguez  gave  me,  so  here  goes,"  he 
said,  starting  up  the  finely  graveled  driveway 
with  the  same  feeling  he  always  had  when  he 
dashed  down  the  beach  to  plunge  into  the  cold 
waters  of  the  ocean. 

He  tramped  steadily  along  until  he  dis 
covered  that  the  driveway  was  circular  and  that 
if  he  kept  on  he  would  land  out  on  the  street 
again.  Boldly  he  started  across  the  lawn  in  the 
direction  of  the  house.  Somewhere  on  the 
grounds  a  stringed  orchestra  was  playing.  As 
he  passed  the  tea  tables  he  heard  the  clinking  of 
ice  in  glasses.  Looking  neither  to  right  nor 


44  SPRING  STREET 

left  he  felt  that  the  eyes  of  everyone  he  passed 
were  upon  him.  He  tugged  again  at  his  coat 
tail. 

He  saw  a  servant  stop  and  wait  for  him  and 
he  marched  straight  toward  him. 

"Tradesman?"  asked  the  servant. 

"Reporter,"  he  said,  looking  straight  into 
the  other's  eyes  somewhat  defiantly. 

"Whom  do  you  wish  to  see?" 

"Mrs.  Barton  Randolph." 

"This  way,  please." 

He  followed,  past  more  tables,  past  more 
eyes.  He  watched  while  the  servant  ap 
proached  the  woman  he  knew  to  be  Mrs.  Bar 
ton  Randolph,  who  excused  herself  from  the 
group  around  her.  The  servant  returned. 

"You  were  sent  here  from  your  office?"  he 
asked. 

John  produced  the  admission  card  given  him 
by  his  city  editor. 

"Very  well.  Mrs.  Randolph  instructs  me  to 
tell  you  that  any  information  you  desire  may 
be  obtained  from  her  secretary  in  half  an  hour. 
In  the  meanwhile  you  are  to  consider  yourself 
as  one  of  the  guests." 

He  was  not  long  in  reaching  the  gravel 
driveway  again  and  he  was  headed  for  the 
street,  determined  to  wait  there  for  the  thirty 
minutes,  when  he  noticed  that  to  his  left  only 
a  few  of  the  tables  were  occupied.  At  one  of 


SPRING  STREET  45 

these  he  could  wait  in  the  shade.  Besides,  he 
had  a  feeling  that  he  was  little  more  than  a 
coward  if  he  went  outside. 

Far  back  from  the  driveway,  in  fact  at  the 
table  farthest  from  the  drive,  he  seated  him 
self  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  For  a  while  he  be 
lieved  himself  well  alone,  before  he  discovered 
that  directly  facing  him  sat  another  man,  a  man 
lounging  in  a  wicker  garden  chair,  alone,  idly 
smoking  a  cigarette  and  gazing  at  him  some 
what  intently.  Instantly  John  disliked  this  man, 
for  two  reasons :  he  was  too  immaculately 
dressed  and  his  hair  was  so  perfect  that  it  ap 
peared  to  have  been  moulded  on  his  head. 

The  man  continued  to  gaze  at  him,  and  John, 
feeling  his  face  grow  hot,  stared  back. 

Then  the  man  flicked  the  ash  from  his 
cigarette,  turned  lazily  in  his  chair  and  raised 
his  hand  as  a  signal  to  a  servant  who  was  hover 
ing  over  a  table  and  who  hurried  to  him  in  re 
sponse.  He  spoke  to  the  servant  and  inclined 
his  head  slightly  in  John's  direction.  The  ser 
vant  bowed  and  came  toward  John's  table. 

"If  you're  not  a  guest  here,  sir,  you  will 
kindly  leave  the  grounds,"  he  said. 

John  felt  his  blood  gush  through  his  veins. 
He  saw  the  man  in  the  wicker  chair  smile  mildly 
and  look  up  into  the  branches  of  the  tree  over 
head.  He  overcame  a  wild  impulse  to  step 
over  and  ruin  the  perfect  hair. 


46  SPRING  STREET 

"But  it  happens  I  am  a  guest,"  he  said,  as 
clearly  as  his  choked  back  temper  permitted. 

"You  are,  sir!"  the  servant  pretended  aston 
ished  humiliation.  "Would  you  be  so  good  as 
to  say  by  whose  invitation?" 

Then  it  happened.  John  afterwards  was 
never  quite  sure  what  would  have  taken  place 
there  had  it  not  occurred. 

To  John  she  seemed  to  have  blossomed  up 
out  of  the  ground  before  them.  He  never  saw 
anyone  who  looked  more  like  a  flower,  a  deli 
cate,  beautiful  flower.  She  was  in  white,  a 
quaint  frock  with  ridiculously  tiny  puffed  sleeves 
reaching  only  halfway  to  her  elbows,  gathered 
in  with  a  narrow  black  ribbon.  Something 
about  her,  the  way  she  looked,  the  dress,  the 
whole  expression  of  her  face,  sent  the  thought 
"an  old-fashioned  girl"  coursing  through  John's 
brain. 

The  servant  stepped  back. 

"Do  you  happen  to  be  the  newspaper  re 
porter — ?"  she  said. 

John  nodded. 

"Then  I  am  so  glad  to  have  found  you. 
Mrs.  Randolph  felt  she  was  rather  abrupt  when 
you  asked  to  see  her  and  when  she  noticed  you 
walking  rapidly  away  she  feared  you  were 
offended.  I  volunteered  to  find  you."  She  was 
in  the  chair  beside  him. 


SPRING  STREET  47 

"You  are  very  kind  and  I  am  very  happy," 
he  managed  to  say.  "I  wasn't  offended.  I  was 
embarrassed  and  frightened." 

"By  what?" 

"By  all  this.  The  servant  asked  me  if  I 
was  a  tradesman — whatever  that  is — isn't 
that  enough  to  frighten  anyone?" 

"I've  read  stories  of  reporters  who  never 
knew  fear.  And  in  plays  the  reporter  always 
does  the  bravest  things." 

"In  stones  and  in  plays,"  he  repeated. 
"This,  too,  is  like  a  story  or  a  play.  Here  I 
am  rescued  by  a  heroine  who  is — who  is " 

"Who  is  what?" 

"Beautiful."  The  word  was  no  sooner 
spoken  than  he  could  have  bitten  off  his  tongue. 

He  hoped  she  would  laugh  it  away,  but  she 
only  looked  at  him,  her  lips  parted,  a  hint  of 
incredulousness  in  her  eyes. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  He  was  glad  now  that 
she  had  not  laughed  or  taken  the  word  he  had 
spoken  lightly.  He  felt  she  knew  he  had  not 
said  it  in  an  attempt  at  silly  flirtation. 

"You  spoke  of  being  rescued,"  she  said, 
smiling  again. 

"Yes,  and  the  villain  is  yet  in  the  back 
ground,"  he  said.  "A  devilishly  handsome 
villain  he  is,  too." 

She  glanced  back  over  her  shoulder.     The 


48  SPRING  STREET 

servant  had  disappeared.  The  man  in  the 
wicker  chair  was  looking  at  them,  a  half  smile 
on  his  lips. 

"Surely,"  she  said,  unot  Mr.  Gibson?" 

"If  Mr.  Gibson  is  the  gentleman  in  the  chair 
over  there,  yes." 

"And  why  a  villain?" 

"Well,  he  whispered  something  to  the  ser 
vant  who  was  here  when  you  came  that  caused 
him  to  come  here  and  ask  me  to  leave.  That 
was  how  you  rescued  me." 

"It  is  like  a  book  or  a  play,  isn't  it?" 

"Only  in  books  and  plays  dreams  come  true," 
he  told  her.  "And  villains  are  vanquished." 

"And  what  dream  do  you  wish  to  come 
true?" 

"A  dream — a  rather  silly,  hopeless,  golden 
sort  of  dream — a  dream  of  meeting  you  again." 

Once  more  he  could  have  bitten  off  his 
tongue.  Now  she  would  think  him  a  maudlin 
flirt.  He  looked  to  the  ground  and  saw  his 
dusty,  worn  shoes.  He  was  afraid  to  hear  her 
speak,  afraid  to  look  up.  At  last  he  did,  expect 
ing  to  find  her  gone.  But  she  was  there,  looking 
at  him  as  she  had  when  he  told  her  she  was  beau 
tiful,  the  same  hint  of  incredulousness  in  her 
eyes. 

"Don't  say  you're  sorry,"  she  said  softly. 
"I'd  like  to  think  you  meant  it." 


SPRING  STREET  49 

They  were  silent.  He  saw  the  man  in  the 
wicker  chair  rise,  toss  aside  his  cigarette  and 
come  toward  them,  slowly.  They  waited,  with 
out  speaking,  until  he  reached  their  table. 

His  eyes  met  Gibson's  steadily  for  two  tense 
seconds.  Then  he  saw  Gibson  turn  from  him 
to  the  girl  as  if  he  was  not  there. 

"Consuello,"  Gibson  said. 

She  rose. 

"Reggie,"  she  said,  "a  friend,  Mr. " 

"John  Gallant,"  John  said,  slowly. 

"Mr.  Gallant,  Mr.  Gibson,"  she  said. 
They  shook  hands. 

"I  believe  I  saw  Mr.  Gallant  several  nights 
ago,"  Gibson  said. 

John  waited,  wondering  how  Gibson  would 
say  it. 

"He  was  very  busily  engaged  with  another 
gentleman" — he  gave  a  slight  emphasis  to  the 
"gentleman" — "whose  name,  I  believe,  was 
Rodriguez." 

"Really!     You  have  met  before?" 

"Come,  Consuello,"  said  Gibson,  "we  must 
be  trotting  back  to  the  house.  The  afternoon 
will  be  gone  soon." 

She  saw  the  look  in  John's  eyes  before  she 
answered: 

"Reggie,  you  must  excuse  me.  I'll  be  along 
shortly— with  Mr.  Gallant" 


50  SPRING  STREET 

"Very  well,"  Gibson  turned  leisurely  and 
they  watched  him  walk  away. 

He  was  only  slightly  incensed  by  Gibson's 
deliberate  insult  in  strolling  away  without  ac 
knowledging,  by  even  so  much  as  a  nod  of  his 
head,  their  introduction  to  each  other  by  Con- 
suello.  He  felt  a  tinge  of  satisfaction,  of  even 
vengeance. 

"You  mustn't  let  me  keep  you,"  he  said,  as  he 
saw  she  still  looked  at  Gibson's  retreating  fig 
ure  and  that  an  expression  of  astonishment  was 
puzzling  her  face. 

"It  was  wrong  of  him — I  do  not  understand," 
she  said.  She  laughed  lightly.  "But  you  must 
not  believe  him  a  villain.  It  was  so  unlike  him. 
Fm  sure  he  will  tell  you  so  himself  before  you 
leave." 

The  hum  of  starting  motors  came  to  them 
and  through  the  trees  John  saw  the  first  of  the 
long  line  of  automobiles  go  up  the  driveway 
toward  the  house.  The  fete  was  ending;  the 
guests  were  leaving.  He  remembered  why  he 
was  there;  his  appointment  to  meet  Mrs.  Ran 
dolph's  secretary.  They  started  across  the 
lawn. 

"Mrs.  Randolph  will  believe  I'm  lost,"  she 
said.  "I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  she  has  al 
ready  sent  someone  to  look  for  me." 

"I  hope "  he  began. 


SPRING  STREET  51 

"Yes." 

"I  hope  you  do  not  feel  I  have  been  bold," 
he  said.  "It  was  rude  and  presumptuous  for 
me  to  say  the  things  I  did  to  you.  Please  try 
to  understand  and  forgive  me." 

"If  I  say  I  believe  I  understand  and  that 
there  is  nothing  to  forgive,  will  you  think  me 
vain?"  she  asked. 

They  reached  the  driveway.  Luxurious  se 
dans  and  limousines  with  liveried  chauffeurs 
blocked  their  crossing.  She  turned  to  him,  her 
hand  extended. 

"Good  afternoon,"  she  said.  "Sometime, 
soon  perhaps,  if  you  wish,  we  will  meet  again; 
you  will  hear  from  me,  because — because  I — 
think  you  meant  it."  She  added  the  final  words 
lightly  and  with  a  smile. 

"I  did,"  he  said. 

She  turned  to  the  driveway.  An  automobile 
stopped  and  she  crossed  over  in  the  gap  of  the 
line  of  motors  it  made  for  her.  The  machine 
moved  forward  again,  blocking  any  sight  of 
her  as  she  went  on  toward  the  house. 

The  list  of  guests  and  the  amount  of  money 
netted  by  the  fete  he  received  from  Mrs.  Ran 
dolph's  secretary  in  neatly  typewritten  lists. 
The  last  of  the  motors  were  chugging  up  the 
driveway  as  he  left.  He  walked  out  into  the 
street,  toward  the  car  line,  bound  for  his  office. 


52  SPRING  STREET 

As  he  waited  at  the  corner  for  his  car  a  low, 
rakish  roadster  stopped  before  him.  He  heard 
a  creaking  of  brakes  and  saw  the  back  wheels 
of  the  machine  lock  as  it  came  to  a  stop.  He 
looked  up.  Gibson  was  at  the  wheel,  Consuello 
at  his  side. 

"Mr.  Gallant,"  Gibson  called. 

John  stepped  forward.  Gibson  leaned  to 
ward  him,  his  hand  outstretched. 

"Miss  Carrillo  has  reminded  me  I  made 
rather  a  fool  of  myself  back  there  at  the  table," 
he  said,  smiling.  "Perhaps  you  may  understand 
the  position  I  was  in.  I  offer  my  apologies." 

John  gripped  his  hand. 

"Thanks,"  said  Gibson.  "You  understand 
how  it  is." 

"Yes,"  assented  John,  without  really  knowing 
what  his  answer  meant. 

"Sorry  there  isn't  room  to  give  you  a  lift  to 
town,"  Gibson  said,  racing  the  motor  and  shift 
ing  the  gear.  As  the  machine  moved  away  John 
saw  Consuello  smile  and  there  was  an  echo  of 
gladness  in  his  heart. 

But  a  disconcerting  thought  crept  into  John's 
mind  as  he  watched  Gibson's  machine  disap 
pear  in  the  traffic.  Had  she  only  been  kind  to 
him  because  of  an  instinctive  sympathy,  born  of 
good  breeding,  for  his  embarrassment  there  on 
the  lawn?  Was  she  laughing  now  with  Gibson, 


SPRING  STREET  53 

telling  him  of  her  experience  with  a  flirtatious 
or  sickly  sentimental  cub  reporter?  Something 
in  the  manner  of  Gibson  as  he  offered  his  apol 
ogy  caused  this  suspicion  to  spring  into  his  mind 
against  her. 

Yes,  that  was  it.  She  had  only  pitied  him, 
his  awkwardness,  his  apparent  discomfort,  his 
shabby  suit,  his  worn  shoes.  She  had  led  him 
artfully  into  telling  her  she  was  beautiful  and 
that  he  dreamed — he  cursed  himself  as  he  re 
membered  his  words,  ua  rather  silly,  hopeless, 
golden  sort  of  dream," — of  meeting  her  again. 
Meet  him  again?  Why,  she  would  probably 
forget  him  tomorrow  unless  she  recalled  how 
he  had  acted  and  told  it  as  something  to  laugh 
over. 

What  a  fool,  what  a  weak,  mawkish,  insipid 
fool  he  had  made  of  himself! 

He  burned  with  humiliation.  Even  if  she 
had  been  sincere,  what  would  she  think  of  him 
when  Gibson  told  her  of  his  fight  at  Vernon 
with  Battling  Rodriguez?  He  could  see  her, 
in  his  imagination,  assuring  Gibson  that  had  she 
known  he  was  a  prize  fighter,  a  brute  who 
fought  with  his  fists  for  money,  she  would 
never  have  spoken  to  him.  Of  course,  Gibson 
would  not  tell  her  why  he  had  fought  at  Ver 
non.  He  felt  this  instinctively. 

He  pictured  her  and  Gibson  together  at  all 


54  SPRING  STREET 

sorts  of  places,  on  a  yacht  cruising  around  Cata- 
lina  island,  on  the  links  at  a  country  club, 
a  ball  at  the  Ambassador,  racing  along  the  coast 
road  to  Santa  Barbara  in  Gibson's  expensive 
car,  at  the  opera  and  supper  later.  Then 
thought  of  the  patch  on  his  own  trousers.  Oh, 
what  a  fool  he  had  been ! 

When  he  returned  to  the  office — it  was  after 
5  o'clock — he  found  it  deserted  except  for 
Brennan  and  P.  Q.  Brennan  was  squatted  on 
the  city  editor's  desk.  P.  Q.  was  leaning  back 
in  his  swivel  chair,  his  feet  perched  on  the 
desk  before  him. 

"Well,  son,  how  did  you  enjoy  your  after 
noon  in  society?"  he  asked  as  John  handed  in 
the  .typewritten  sheets  given  him  by  Mrs.  Ran 
dolph's  secretary.  He  glanced  at  the  list  of 
guests. 

"I  see  Gibson's  name  here — Reginald  Gib 
son — did  you  happen  to  meet  him  or  see  him 
out  there?" 

John  was  startled.  He  had  heard  the  re 
porters  tell  of  P.  Q.'s  superhuman  ability  of 
knowing,  without  being  told,  what  his  men  did 
out  on  assignments.  What  made  him  ask  if 
he  had  met  Gibson? 

"Yes — I  saw — I  met  him,"  he  replied. 

"You  did,  huh?  Well,  you  must  have  been 
mixing  in  proper.  I  wish  I'd  known  Gibson  was 


SPRING  STREET  55 

out  there.  Brennan,  here,  has  been  trying  to 
find  him  all  afternoon.  You  don't  happen  to 
know  where  he  is  now,  do  you?" 

"I  saw  him  leave." 

"Alone?" 

"No,  there  was  someone  with  him  in  his  car." 

"Who  was  it?"  Brennan  asked. 

"Miss  Consuello  Carrillo,"  John  answered, 
puzzled  by  this  cross-examination. 

"Good!"  exclaimed  Brennan,  sliding  from 
his  perch  on  the  desk  and  seizing  a  telephone 
book. 

"How  did  you  happen  to  know  who  it  was 
with  Gibson?"  asked  P.  Q.,  as  Brennan  disap 
peared  into  a  telephone  booth. 

"I — I — met  her,"  John  said,  his  puzzled 
feeling  turning  to  astonishment. 

"Well,  well,  you  WERE  mixing  in,  weren't 
you?"  P.  Q.  smiled.  "Gibson  was  appointed 
police  commissioner  a  few  hours  ago.  He's  a 
good  man  for  you  to  know,  because  if  we're 
not  mistaken  he's  going  to  start  something 
that  will  keep  him  on  the  front  page  for  some 
time  to  come." 

Brennan  came  hustling  out  of  the  phone 
booth. 

"She  asked  if  you  were  here — wants  to  speak 
to  you,"  he  said. 

"To  me?    Who?"  asked  John. 


56  SPRING  STREET 

"Miss  Carrillo.  I  telephoned  her  place  to 
try  to  reach  Gibson.  She  said  he  had  just  left 
and  asked  me  if  you  had  returned  yet.  Get  in 
there  and  find  out  if  anyone's  got  to  Gibson  yet 
about  his  appointment  as  police  commissioner." 

Brennan  stuck  his  head  in  the  booth  to  listen 
as  John  lifted  the  receiver. 

"Hello,"  he  said. 

"Mr.   Gallant?"   it  was  her  voice. 

"Yes." 

"You  see,  he  did  not  forget.  I  did  not  ask 
him  to  make  that  apology;  I  only  told  him  I 
thought  he  had  been  forgetful." 

"Yes,"  said  John,  realizing  she  was  refer 
ring  to  the  apology  offered  him  by  Gibson. 

"Now  that  he  is  a  police  commissioner  he 
will  need  you,  as  a  newspaper  man,  for  a 
friend." 

"Ask  her  if  he  has  given  any  interviews  yet," 
Brennan  put  in. 

"Has  Mr.  Gibson  made  a  statement  con 
cerning  his  appointment?"  John  asked. 

"No,  I  don't  believe  he  knows  yet  that  he 
has  been  appointed." 

"Where  is  he  now?"  prompted  Brennan. 

"Do  you  know  where  he  went  when  he  left 
your  place?" 

"No,  I'm  sorry,  I  don't.    Home,  I  suppose," 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Carrillo," 


SPRING  STREET  57 

"Mr.  Gallant " 

"Yes." 

"Don't  think  him  a — a — a  villain,  will  you?" 

"Why  should  I?" 

"You  thought  him  one  at  the  fete  this  after 
noon.  I'm  sure  you  know  now  that  he  is  not. 
And  remember,  we  are  to  see  each  other  again." 

"Yes,  indeed." 

"I  won't  forget.     Good-by." 

"Good-by." 

"What  did  she  say?"  demanded  Brennan. 

"She  says  Gibson  doesn't  know  yet  that  he 
had  been  appointed  commissioner  and  that  she 
supposes  he  started  for  home  when  he  left  her 
place." 

Brennan  eyed  him  shrewdly. 

"You  seem  to  know  her  rather  well,"  he 
ventured. 

P.  Q.  said  it  was  too  late  to  get  anything 
Gibson  might  say  if  they  located  him  into  the 
last  edition  for  that  day.  He  instructed  Bren 
nan  to  see  Gibson  as  early  as  possible  in  the 
morning. 

"And  suppose  you  take  Gallant  along  with 
you.  He  seems  to  have  got  acquainted  with 
Gibson,"  he  added. 

"And  Consuello,"  appended  Brennan. 


CHAPTER  IV 

story  that  Gibson  gave  John  and 
Brennan  the  following  morning  carried  the 
big  black  banner  headline  in  every  edition — 
''Gibson  Plans  Cleanup  Crusade,"  "Gibson 
Charges  L.  A.  Police  Graft,"  "New  Commis 
sioner  Wants  Police  Shakeup."  Beside  the 
story,  which  was  written  by  Brennan,  were 
photographs  of  Gibson  glaring  into  the  camera 
with  an  upraised  fist.  "Action  stuff,"  it  was 
called  by  P.  Q. 

Gibson  was  in  his  office  in  a  downtown  busi 
ness  block  when  Brennan  and  John  found  him. 

"How  are  you,  Gallant?"  he  asked,  smiling 
and  brisk.  "Glad  to  meet  you,  Brennan.  Step 
right  into  my  office,  boys.  I  suppose  you're 
after  a  story.  Well,  I'll  give  it  to  you." 

He  handed  them  each  a  typewritten  state 
ment. 

"Read  that  through  and  if  you  have  any 
questions  I'm  here  to  answer  them,"  he  said. 

Two  pages  of  the  statement  contained  a  hot 
attack  on  the  police  department.  He  charged 
that  the  department  was  disorganized,  honey 
combed  with  graft,  tolerating  and  protecting 
vice  conditions,  inefficient  and  negligent.  He 
cited  the  operations  of  bunko  swindlers,  gam- 


SPRING  STREET  59 

biers  and  bandits  and  declared  that  the  city 
was  "wide  open." 

uThe  fair  name  of  Los  Angeles  is  being 
dragged  in  the  mire  by  grafting  politicians, 
crooks  and  police  grafters,"  one  sentence  of 
the  statement  read. 

In  another  page  and  a  half  he  pledged  him 
self  to  a  crusade  to  clean  up  the  city,  announcing 
that  he  had  been  assured  of  the  support  of  the 
churches  and  various  business  organizations  as 
well  as,  he  believed,  "every  self-respecting  and 
upstanding  citizen  of  the  city." 

"I  intend  to  hew  to  the  line,  let  the  chips  fall 
where  they  may,"  the  statement  said.  "I'm  in 
this  fight  to  the  finish.  Vice,  gambling,  ban 
ditry,  lewd  women  and  graft  must  go.  With 
out  having  received  the  slightest  intimation  that 
the  mayor  intended  appointing  me  to  the  board 
of  police  commissioners  I  have  been  accumulat 
ing  evidence  of  conditions  in  Los  Angeles  for 
months.  I  have  enough  information  now  to 
start  firing  my  guns  and  I  call  upon  the  law- 
abiding  citizens  of  this  great  city  to  stand  with 
me  in  the  fight." 

To  the  statement  was  affixed  the  signature, 
"Reginald  Gibson." 

"I  suppose,  Mr.  Gibson,"  said  Brennan, 
"that  everything  you  care  to  say  now  is  included 
in  this  statement?" 


60  SPRING  STREET 

Gibson  nodded. 

"There  is  only  one  question  I  wish  to  ask 
you." 

"Shoot,"   acquiesced  the  new  commissioner. 

"Have  you  any  intention  of  entering  the  race 
for  mayor  at  the  next  election?" 

"None  whatever,"  Gibson  hammered  his 
fist  down  on  the  table.  "I  have  no  political 
aspirations.  I  am  actuated  only  by  a  desire 
on  my  part  and  on  the  part  of  other  citizens 
and  organizations  who  realize  conditions  in 
Los  Angeles  to  restore  this  city  to  its  place  as 
the  great  metropolis  of  the  West." 

"I  understand,"  said  Brennan.  "I  only 
asked  that  question  in  fairness  to  yourself." 

"I'm  willing  to  write  out  a  check  right  now 
for  $1,000  to  be  given  to  charity  the  minute  I 
announce  myself  as  candidate  for  mayor  or 
for  any  other  public  elective  office,"  Gibson 
declared. 

"No  need,  Mr.  Commissioner,"  Brennan 
said.  "We'd  like  you  to  stand  for  a  photo 
graph,  if  you  have  no  strenuous  objection." 

Gibson  smiled. 

"I  suppose  I'll  have  to,"  he  said.  "How  do 
you  want  me?" 

The  photographer,  called  in  from  another 
room,  set  up  his  camera. 


SPRING  STREET  61 

"One  at  your  desk  first,  Mr.  Gibson,"  he 
said. 

Gibson  drew  a  small  pocket  mirror  and 
looked  into  it,  smoothing  back  the  hair  that 
had  irritated  John  when  they  first  met  because 
it  was  so  perfect.  John  saw  Brennan  wink  at 
him. 

"How's  this?"  asked  Gibson,  seating  him 
self  at  his  desk,  turning  toward  the  camera  in 
his  swivel  chair  and  holding  a  sheet  of  letter 
paper  as  though  he  had  been  disturbed  by  the 
photographer  in  the  middle  of  the  reading  of 
an  important  document. 

"Fine,  hold  it,"  said  the  photographer.  The 
flashlight  boomed,  sending  a  puff  of  white 
smoke  into  the  air. 

"You  had  better  take  another,  I  blinked  my 
eyes  that  time,"  said  Gibson. 

"Gotcha  before  you  blinked,"  the  photog 
rapher  explained.  "Now  one  standing  if  you 
please,  Mr.  Gibson.  Bend  over  a  little. 
That's  it,  clinch  your  fist  and  raise  it  up  as 
though  you  were  going  to  hit  someone.  That's 
it.  Fine,  thank  you." 

The  flashlight  boomed  again,  filling  the  room 
with  smoke. 

"I  dislike  this  business  of  posing  for  photo 
graphs,"  Gibson  said.  "I  suppose  it  has  to  be, 
though." 


62  SPRING  STREET 

Brennan  tipped  another  wink  to  John.  This 
time  John  winked  back. 

On  their  way  back  to  the  office  John  asked 
Brennan  what  he  thought  of  Gibson  and  his 
statement. 

"It's  a  story,  a  good  one,"  said  Brennan. 
"One  of  the  kind  that's  always  good.  Wealthy 
young  reformer  wants  to  clean  up  town.  Out 
to  clean  up  the  police  department.  It's  always 
gone  big  since  Roosevelt  did  it  in  New  York. 
Lot  of  bromides  in  the  statement  'hew  to  the 
line  and  let  the  chips  fall  where  they  may,'  'fair 
name  of  our  great  city  being  dragged  in  the 
mire'  and  stuff  like  that,  but  it'll  get  over." 

John  was  somewhat  surprised  by  Brennan's 
way  of  answering. 

"And  what  about  Gibson?"  he  asked. 

"Gibson  may  be  sincere  and  he  may  not. 
He's  either  a  comer  or  a  sap.  If  he  means 
what  he  says  and  goes  through  with  it,  he'll 
have  the  whole  city  behind  him.  If  he's  just 
doing  a  lot  of  grandstanding  or  if  he's  playing 
someone's  political  game,  that's  another  thing. 
Just  remember  one  thing,  we  may  need  it  some 
time ;  remember  what  he  said  when  I  asked  him 
if  he  was  out  to  be  mayor!" 

John  was  unwilling  to  take  the  skeptical  at 
titude  shown  by  the  older  reporter. 

"If  he  really  has  no   idea  of  running  for 


SPRING  STREET  63 

mayor,  what  else  could  cause  him  to  do  what 
he  says  he  will  except  a  sincere  desire  to  keep 
things  clean  and  straight?"  he  asked. 

"Well,"  said  Brennan,  "some  of  them  are 
out  for  glory  and  some  of  them  play  a  deeper 
game.  Sometimes  it's  a  girl." 

John  thought  of  Consuello. 

"Maybe  he's  in  love  with  fair  Consuello," 
Brennan  suggested,  smiling.  "Wants  to  do 
something  big  and  glorious  to  win  her." 

"I'm  willing  to  give  him  a  chance,"  John 
said.  "I  can't  help  but  think  he's  sincere.  Let's 
hope  so,  anyway." 

"Gallant,"  said  Brennan,  after  they  had 
walked  half  a  block  without  speaking.  "I'd 
give  anything  in  the  world  to  have  your  faith 
in  mankind.  Try  and  keep  it  as  long  as  you 
can.  That's  the  trouble  with  most  reporters. 
They  see  so  much  of  the  other  side  of  life  that 
they  drop  into  cynicism  and  that  ruins  them. 
You  are  ready  to  believe,  I  am  ready  to  disbe 
lieve.  Keep  on  believing,  Gallant.  If  you're 
deceived  once,  twice,  any  number  of  times,  keep 
on  believing." 

John  was  strangely  impressed  by  these  words 
from  Brennan.  It  was  a  new  light  on  the 
character  of  the  most  interesting  man  he  had 
ever  met.  He  wondered  if  years  ahead  he 


64  SPRING  STREET 

would  be  saying  the  same  thing  to  some  young 
reporter. 

As  P.  Q.  had  predicted,  Gibson  was  in  the 
headlines  for  the  remainder  of  the  week.  His 
announcement  of  a  cleanup  crusade  although 
apparently  a  direct  slap  at  the  administration, 
was  followed  by  a  pledge  from  the  mayor  to 
support  him. 

"What  else  could  the  mayor  do?"  Bren- 
nan  said  to  John.  "He  can't  very  well  sit  back 
while  Gibson  goes  ahead  in  his  campaign  to 
clamp  down  the  lid  and  clean  up  the  depart 
ment.  He  would  put  himself  in  a  position  to 
be  attacked  for  failure  to  enforce  the  law. 

"He  can't  fire  Gibson.  That  would  give 
Gibson  a  chance  to  holler  that  the  mayor  was 
afraid  of  a  graft  expose  and  was  hand  in  hand 
with  crooks.  If  he  comes  out  and  fires  him  as 
a  misguided  sensationalist — it  would  be  hard 
to  get  that  across  because  of  Gibson's  holler 
about  graft — it's  a  confession  of  his  own  poor 
judgment.  Whoever  wished  Gibson  on  him 
certainly  got  the  mayor  in  a  jam. 

"Suppose  he  goes  ahead  and  supports  Gib 
son,  don't  you  see  what  that  will  mean?  It 
means  that  Gibson  will  be  mayor.  Everybody 
will  say,  'Why  didn't  our  mayor  do  this  before 
Gibson  came  along?'  Gibson  will  be  the  un 
crowned  king.  Why,  unless  something  upsets 


SPRING  STREET  65 

him,  Gibson  will  be  able  to  name  the  next  mayor 
of  Los  Angeles  by  simply  indorsing  the  man's 
candidacy. 

"Gibson  may  not  realize  all  this,  but  if  he 
doesn't  I'll  be  badly  fooled.  Whatever  his 
game  is,  he  has  the  mayor  all  tied  up  right  at 
the  start.  All  he  has  to  do  is  to  go  ahead  with 
his  program  of  personally  conducted  raids  and 
exposes.  Then  he'll  be  the  most  powerful  man 
in  Los  Angeles.  When  he  is  that,  we'll  know 
for  sure  whether  he  was  right  or  not.  It's 
when  a  man  gets  power  in  his  hands  that  you 
can  tell  what  he  is." 

Two  days  after  his  appointment  as  a  com 
missioner,  Gibson  demanded  the  resignation 
of  Police  Chief  Sweeney.  He  gave  Brennan 
and  John  the  story,  another  typewritten  state 
ment,  to  which  was  attached  his  letter  to  the 
mayor  calling  upon  him  for  Sweeney's  removal. 

"That's  a  pretty  one,"  commented  Brennan. 
"Now,  if  the  mayor  fires  Sweeney,  Gibson  will 
be  able  to  name  the  next  chief.  If  he  doesn't 
let  Sweeney  go,  Gibson  will  be  able  to  holler 
that  the  mayor  isn't  supporting  him." 

John  was  still  reluctant  to  believe  Gibson's 
moves  were  as  sinister  as  Brennan  viewed  them. 
There  were  times  when,  under  Brennan's  logic, 
he  began  to  doubt  Gibson's  sincerity. 

Then  Gibson  disappeared.     For  three  days 


66  SPRING  STREET 

he  was  absent  from  his  office.     Brennan  and 
John  sought  him  at  his  home,  his  club,  without 


success. 

u 


He's  up  to  something,"  predicted  Brennan. 
"There'll  be  a  story  popping  when  he  shows 

UP  again-"         ***** 

It  was  Saturday  morning  when  John  re 
ceived  a  note  from  Consuello  inviting  him  to 
spend  Sunday  afternoon  and  evening  at  the 
ranch  home  of  her  father  and  mother. 

"I  am  keeping  my  promise,"  she  wrote. 
"Would  you  care  to  visit  with  me  at  the  home 
of  my  father  and  mother,  Sunday?  It  is  such 
a  delightfully  interesting  old  place.  I'm  certain 
you  will  enjoy  it. 

"If  you  find  yourself  able  to  accept  this  in 
vitation  let  me  know  by  telephone  and  we  will 
arrange  for  me  to  pick  you  up  when  I  drive 
out  early  in  the  afternoon.  I  do  hope  you 


can  come." 


It  was  signed,  "Sincerely,  Consuello  Car- 
rillo." 

He  found  her  telephone  number  listed  beside 
her  name.  The  fact  that  she  resided  in  Los 
Angeles  while  her  parents  apparently  lived  out 
of  the  city  puzzled  him. 

"Town  house  and  old  country  home,"  he  said 
to  himself  as  he  picked  up  the  telephone  to  call 
her. 


SPRING  STREET  67 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you  can  go  with  me,"  she 
said.  UI  have  a  car.  Shall  I  call  for  you  at 
two?  Or  shall  I  meet  you  somewhere  else 
you  may  suggest?" 

He  thought  of  the  commotion  it  would 
cause  in  the  neighborhood  of  his  home  to  have 
her  call  for  him  there. 

"Could  I  possibly  meet  you  at  Seventh  and 
Broadway?"  he  asked,  fearing  that  such  a  re 
quest  might  be  considered  extraordinary. 

"Seventh  and  Broadway  at  two,  then,"  she 
said. 

A  liveried  chauffeur  was  at  the  wheel  of  the 
big  touring  car  in  which  she  met  him.  It 
frightened  him  somewhat  to  think  that  such 
wealth  was  hers.  Curiously,  he  was  relieved 
when  she  said: 

"A  friend  is  so  kind  as  to  place  this  car  at 
my  disposal  every  Sunday,  so  I  may  make  my 
week-end  visits  home  in  comfort." 

Instinctively  John  felt  that  it  was  Gibson's 
machine. 

As  the  automobile  glided  through  the  city 
traffic  and  out  to  the  smooth  boulevards  of  the 
open  country  they  spoke  of  Gibson's  mysterious 
absence  during  the  past  few  days. 

"He  told  me  that  business,  something  very 
important,  called  him  away,"  she  said.  "He 
promised  he  would  be  back  some  time  this  week. 


68  SPRING  STREET 

I  suppose  whatever  has  taken  him  away  has  to 
do  with  his  work  as  a  commissioner." 

She  wore  the  same  quaintly  beautiful  white 
frock  that  John  had  so  admired  when  he  first 
saw  her  at  the  lawn  fete  at  the  Barton  Ran 
dolph  home.  He  saw  that  her  eyes  and  hair 
were  brown,  her  lips  a  coral  red,  her  skin  faintly 
tinted  olive.  Her  features  were  small  and  deli 
cately  formed.  Her  feet  were  positively  tiny 
and  he  marveled  at  the  natural  curve  of  the  high 
instep. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  "what  do  people  think 
of  Mr.  Gibson  as  a  commissioner?" 

He  thought  of  Brennan's  skepticism  and  the 
frankly  expressed  doubt  of  other  newspaper 
men  of  Gibson's  motives. 

"Generally  he  has  the  support  of  the  city," 
he  answered.  "There  are  some,  however,  who 
impute  a  selfish  desire  for  political  power  to 
his  work." 

"How  ridiculous!"  she  exclaimed,  laughing. 
"Hasn't  he  told  you  he  has  no  aspiration  to  be 
come  mayor  or  to  be  rewarded  with  anything 
else  but  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  he  has 
done  something  for  the  city?" 

"He  has,  and  I  believe  him." 

"Why  did  people  doubt?  He  has  told  me 
that  it  will  be  a  struggle  and  has  been  so  kind 
as  to  ask  me  to  keep  faith  in  him  no  matter 


SPRING  STREET  69 

what  arises.  He  knows  that  he  will  be  attacked 
viciously  by  the  element  he  is  seeking  to  drive 
from  the  city.  I  believe  in  him.  I  think  it  is 
such  a  splendid  thing  he  is  doing.  I  knew  that 
you  would  feel  the  same." 

Brennan's  words,  "Some  of  them  are  out  for 
glory  and  some  of  them  play  a  deeper  game, 
sometimes  it's  a  girl,"  came  back  to  him.  If 
it  was  for  her,  to  win  her  commendation  and 
respect,  that  Gibson  was  fighting,  then,  John 
thought,  Gibson  was  a  modern  knight-errant 
riding  into  battle  against  the  forces  of  evil,  a 
twentieth  century  Sir  Galahad.  And  what  a 
"lady  fair"  to  battle  for! 

"But  let's  forget  all  that  for  now,"  she  said. 
"See,  we  are  leaving  the  city  behind  us.  That 
is  how  I  always  feel  when  I'm  on  my  way  home 
again.  The  ranch  is  home  to  me,  you  know. 
I  was  born  there.  I  do  not  know  what  would 
happen  to  me  if  I  was  unable  to  return  home 
at  least  once  every  week.  It  takes  me  away 
from  all  the  fret  and  bother  of  the  city." 

John  wondered  what  her  "fret  and  bother" 
in  the  city  could  be  except,  perhaps,  a  never- 
ending  round  of  parties  and  lawn  fetes  and 
social  affairs.  Why  had  she  to  live  in  the  city 
at  all  and  why  wasn't  it  her  machine  they  were 
riding  in  and  her  chauffeur  at  the  wheel? 

"You'll  love  my  father,"  she  said.     "Every- 


70  SPRING  STREET 

one  does.  He  is  such  a  dear,  gentle  old  soul. 
He  was  born  on  the  ranch  72  years  age.  And 
mother's  grandfather  sailed  from  New  York 
to  Nicaragua,  crossing  over  to  the  Pacific  Coast 
by  foot  and  in  the  canoes  of  natives.  At  San 
Juan  del  Sur  he  was  carried  out  through  the 
surf  into  boats  that  took  him  to  the  steamship 
which  brought  him  to  San  Francisco.  Father's 
stories  of  the  old  days  in  Los  Angeles  are  a 
treat. 

"Let  me  tell  you  one  of  them.  Do  you  know 
how  Spring  street  came  to  be  named?  Lieut. 
Edward  O.  C.  Ord — for  whom  Ord  street  was 
named — was  one  of  the  first  to  make  a  survey 
of  what  is  now  the  city  of  Los  Angeles.  At  the 
time  Spring  street  was  surveyed  he  was  asked 
to  name  it.  He  was  in  love  with  the  beautiful 
Senorita  Trinidad  de  la  Guerra,  to  whom  he 
always  referred  as  Mi  Primavera,  which  is  'My 
Springtime.'  So  when  he  was  asked  for  a  name 
for  the  new  street  he  replied  gallantly,  Trim- 
avera,  of  course,  for  Mi  Primavera.'  That  is 
only  one  of  the  stories  he  tells  of  the  romance 
of  old  Los  Angeles." 

The  automobile,  traveling  out  along  the  La- 
guna-Bell  road,  reached  a  cross-roads  shaded 
by  tall  and  spreading  trees.  Back  from  the  road 
John  saw  an  old  house  that  charmed  him.  It 
was  of  whitewashed  adobe,  two  stories  in 


SPRING  STREET  71 

height.  Entirely  around  the  second  story  was 
a  balcony  of  wood,  ascended  by  an  open  stair 
way.  Wooden  shutters  were  opened  at  the 
windows,  the  sills  of  which  were  two  feet  in 
thickness. 

"The  old  Lugo  ranch  house,"  Consuello  ex 
plained,  catching  his  inquiring  look.  "Don 
Mario  Lugo  was  a  sturdy  caballero  in  old  Los 
Angeles.  He  had  a  silver  mounted  saddle, 
bridle  and  spurs  that  cost  $1,500  and  he  wore 
an  ornamental  sword  strapped  to  his  saddle  in 
Spanish  soldier  fashion. 

"He  owned  the  San  Antonio  rancho  and  when 
he  was  75  years  old  he  owned  29,000  acres  of 
land.  His  three  sons  owned  another  37,000 
acres.  Twenty-two  thousand  acres — the 
Rancho  del  Chino — was  granted  him  by  the 
government.  Father  remembers  him  well. 

"How  few  of  us  living  in  Los  Angeles  now 
know  of  the  sleepy  little  old  town  it  used  to  be. 
How  little  we  know  or  seem  to  care  to  know  of 
the  old  days,  the  days  of  adventure  and  ro 
mance.  For  me,  my  father's  stories  of  old 
times  never  grow  old." 

It  was  as  John  thought.  She  was  an  "old- 
fashioned"  girl.  How  refreshing  she  was,  how 
different  from  the  girls  he  saw  on  Broadway. 
She  was  the  girl  he  had  dreamed  of.  This  "girl 
of  his  dreams"  had  been  a  vague  picture,  but  he 


72  SPRING  STREET 

realized  now  that  she  was  the  girl  who  was  be 
side  him. 

He  recalled  how  bitterly  he  had  felt  toward 
her  when  he  left  the  Barton  Randolph  lawn 
fete,  how  he  had  cursed  himself  as  a  fool  for 
ever  having  told  her  she  was  beautiful.  He 
wondered  if  Gibson  had  told  her  of  seeing  him 
in  the  ring  at  Vernon,  if  they  had  ever  spoken 
of  him  at  all.  He  could  not  think  of  her  now 
as  pitying  him  as  he  had  when  he  berated  him 
self  after  first  having  met  her. 

Thoughts  of  Gibson  and  Brennan  came  back 
into  his  mind.  He  believed  more  than  ever 
that  Gibson  was  sincere.  He  could  not  force 
himself  to  believe  that  Gibson  would  intention 
ally  violate  the  trust  and  faith  Consuello  had 
placed  in  him.  He  knew  now  that  she  cared 
for  Gibson,  perhaps  loved  him.  There  was  no 
doubt  that  Gibson  was  in  love  with  her.  Bren 
nan  was  right  in  one  thing,  that  Gibson  was 
working  to  win  Consuello's  admiration,  but  he 
was  wrong,  as  he  had  confessed  was  possible,  in 
suspecting  Gibson  of  a  greed  for  power  simply 
for  power's  sake. 

Where  was  Gibson,  anyway?  What  was  he 
doing?  What  would  be  his  next  move?  Would 
the  mayor  remove  Chief  Sweeney  at  his  de 
mand? 


SPRING  STREET  73 

Their  machine  turned  abruptly  into  a  side 
road,  shaded  by  widespreading  walnut  trees. 

"We're  nearly  home,"  Consuello  said. 

On  either  side  were  orchard  trees.  The  air 
was  quiet,  cool.  Hedges  of  pink  Cherokee 
roses  lined  the  road.  The  machine  stopped  be 
side  a  stretch  of  closely  cropped  lawn.  On  the 
wide  veranda  of  the  Carrillo  home  John  caught 
his  first  glimpse  of  Consuello's  father  and 
mother,  seated  restfully  in  porch  chairs.  He 
saw  both  had  snow  white  hair. 

"Here  we  are — there's  daddy  and  mamma," 
Consuello  said,  waving  to  them. 

They  started  across  the  lawn  to  the  house, 
Consuello  skipping  a  few  steps  ahead  of  him. 
He  thought  her  more  beautiful  than  ever  before 
as  she  danced  before  him  clearly  outlined  in  her 
white  frock  against  the  deep  green  of  the  grass. 


CHAPTER  V 

TN  THE  cool  of  the  evening,  after  dinner, 
-••  they  sat  on  the  veranda  listening  to  the  rem 
iniscent  stories  of  Consuello's  father,  the  first  of 
the  fine  old  Spanish  aristocrats  of  Southern 
California  John  had  ever  met.  Don  Ygnacio 
Carrillo  wore  a  dark  blue  broadcloth  suit  with 
black  velvet  lapels  and  cuffs,  a  spotless,  stiffly 
starched,  pleated  linen  shirt  and  a  loose  black 
silk  bow  tie.  His  fluffy  white  hair  contrasted 
beautifully,  John  thought,  with  his  skin,  tinted 
a  pale  amber. 

The  gracious  hospitality  of  his  hosts,  so 
typical  of  the  pioneers  of  the  early  southland, 
had  put  John  completely  at  his  ease.  They  had 
eaten  from  a  solid  mahogany  table  which,  he 
was  told,  had  been  brought  "around  the  Horn" 
in  a  sailing  vessel. 

Consuello  curled  herself  at  her  father's  feet. 
Her  mother,  whose  grandfather  made  the  ar 
duous  trip  across  the  isthmus  which  Consuello 
had  described,  was  the  descendant  of  a  New 
England  family  who  had  adopted  the  pictur 
esque  customs  of  the  Spanish  family  into  which 
she  had  married.  As  she  sat  with  them  she 
wore  a  finely-spun  black  lace  mantilla,  or  shawl, 
around  her  shoulders. 


SPRING  STREET  75 

"I  promised  Mr.  Gallant  you  would  tell  us 
stories  of  the  old  days  in  Los  Angeles,  father," 
said  Consuello. 

"Ah,  no,  Mi  Primavera.  I  would  not  care 
to  bore  Mr.  Gallant  with  such  dusty  old  tales. 
He  is  a  lad  of  today,"  her  father  stroked  her 
head  as  it  rested  against  his  knee. 

"Mi  Primavera,"  My  Springtime,  how  well 
her  father's  pet  name  suited  her!  John  won 
dered  why  he  had  not  transferred  it  to  her  when 
she  told  him  the  story  of  the  naming  of  Spring 
street. 

"Do  tell  us,  Mr.  Carrillo,"  he  begged. 
"Consuello  has  already  told  me  how  Spring 
street  was  named.  Old  stories,  old  homes,  the 
old  names  of  old  streets  charm  me." 

"Old  streets — old  names,"  said  Don  Ygna- 
cio,  as  if  to  himself.  "Si,  I  will  tell  you.  Par 
don  an  old  man  if  he  seems  garrulous. 

"What  is  now  San  Fernando  street,  my 
children,  was  once  the  Street  of  the  Maids. 
Was  not  that  a  prettier  name?  Aliso  street  is 
from  the  Castilian  'aliso,'  meaning  alder  tree. 
In  1829  Jean  Louis  Vignes — after  whom  Vig- 
nes  street  was  named — set  out  a  vineyard 
through  which  Aliso  street  now  runs.  Some 
one  misapplied  the  word  (aliso'  to  a  sycamore 
tree  in  front  of  the  Vignes  home  and  that  was 
how  the  street  was  given  its  name. 


76  SPRING  STREET 

"Broadway  was  Fort  street.  J.  M.  Griffith 
built  the  first  two-story  frame  house  in  Los 
Angeles  between  Second  and  Third  on  which  is 
now  Broadway  in  1874.  Judge  H.  K.  S. 
O'Melveney  built  the  second.  Then  it  was 
the  choice  residential  district. 

"I  remember  that  Senor  Griffith  spoke  to  me 
one  day.  I  think  it  was  in  '74,  telling  me  that 
Fort  street  was  destined  to  become  the  most  im 
portant  business  street  of  Los  Angeles.  How 
strange  his  words  seemed  to  me  then ! 

"My  friend,  George  D.  Rowan,  who  brought 
to  Los  Angeles  the  first  phaeton  seen  in  our 
streets,  was  responsible  for  the  changing  of  the 
name  of  Fort  street  to  Broadway.  I  remember 
when  he  subdivided  the  block  bounded  by  Sixth, 
Seventh,  Hill  and  Olive  streets  and  sold  60-foot 
lots  for  $600.  Ah,  if  we  had  only  known  in 
those  days  what  a  great  city  Los  Angeles  was  to 
become ! 

"Late  in  the  fifties  O.  W.  Childs  contracted 
with  the  city  to  dig  a  water  ditch  1,600  feet  long, 
18  inches  wide  and  18  inches  deep  and  the  city 
allowed  him  a  dollar  per  running  foot.  In  pay 
ment  for  the  ditch  digging  he  took  land,  a  large 
part  of  which  was  the  square  from  Sixth  street 
to  Twelfth  street,  from  Main  to  Figueroa. 
When  Childs  put  this  property  into  the  market 
his  wife  named  the  streets. 


SPRING  STREET  77 

"Because  of  the  large  number  of  grasshop 
pers  in  the  vicinity  she  called  the  extension  of 
Pearl  street,  which  is  now  Figueroa,  Calle  de 
los  Chapules,  or  the  Street  of  the  Grasshoppers. 
Three  streets  she  called  after  the  trio  of  Graces. 
Faith,  Hope  and  Charity.  The  street  she 
named  Faith  is  now  Flower  and  Charity  street 
became  Grand  avenue.  And  can  you  imagine 
why  these  names  were  changed?  Why,  because 
residents  of  the  two  streets  objected  to  being  re 
ferred  to  as  'living  on  Faith  and  Charity  I' 

"None  of  us  old  settlers  placed  much  value 
on  real  estate  then.  Childs  gave  to  the  church 
the  block  bounded  by  Broadway,  Seventh,  Hill 
and  Sixth.  In  the  boom  year  of  1887  this  block 
was  sold  for  $100,000  and  St.  Vincent's  college, 
which  had  occupied  the  site,  was  moved  to  the 
corner  of  Washington  and  Charity — Grand 
avenue  it  is  now. 

"In  those  days  too,  we  had  a  Lovers'  Lane. 
It  was  a  narrow  road,  deep  with  dust  and  shaded 
by  willow  trees  that  followed  the  line  of  what 
is  now  Date  street  and  Main  street  was  then 
Calle  Principal.  There  are  few  who  recall 
where  Pound  Cake  Hill  was.  It  was  the  hill  on 
which  now  stands  the  county  courthouse  at 
Broadway  and  Temple. 

"My  father  often  told  me  of  the  great  horse 
race  between  Jose  Andres  Sepulveda's  'Black 


78  SPRING  STREET 

Swan'  and  Pio  Pico's  'Sarco.'  Don  Jose  im 
ported  the  'Black  Swan'  from  Australia  while 
Don  Pio's  horse  was  a  California  steed.  The 
race  was  run  along  a  nine-mile  course  on  San 
Pedro  street  in  '52. 

"Whoever  had  money  to  bet  and  those  who 
had  not  were  in  Los  Angeles  that  day,  many 
coming  from  San  Francisco  and  San  Diego. 
Twenty-five  thousand  dollars,  500  horses,  500 
mares,  500  heifers,  500  calves  and  500  sheep 
were  among  the  stakes  put  up.  The  wife  of 
Jose  Sepulveda  was  driven  to  the  scene  of  the 
race  with  a  fortune  in  gold  slugs  carried  in  a 
large  handkerchief  which  she  opened  to  distrib 
ute  $50  gold  pieces  to  her  attendants  and  ser 
vants  to  wager.  The  'Black  Swan'  won  easily." 

John  was  carried  away  by  the  stories  told 
them  by  Don  Ygnacio.  He  closed  his  eyes  as 
the  old  man  spoke  and  into  his  mind  came  the 
pictures  of  the  Los  Angeles  of  other  days,  the 
romance  and  adventure  of  the  drowsy  little 
town  that  has  become  the  greatest  city  of  the 
West. 

A  full  moon  touched  the  house,  the  lawn,  the 
trees,  with  silver.  Consuello,  too,  he  saw,  was 
dreaming  of  the  days  of  long  ago.  As  her 
father  completed  the  story  of  the  horse  race  he 
paused  and  they  sat  silent,  the  spell  of  remi 
niscence  upon  the  elder  couple  and  of  im 
agination  upon  Consuello  and  John. 


SPRING  STREET  79 

"It  is  growing  late,  Mi  Primavera,"  her 
father  said.  "If  you  are  to  return  to  the  city 
tonight  you  must  leave  soon." 

Consuello  rose  and  went  into  the  house  with 
her  mother.  Don  Ygnacio  and  John  stood 
waiting.  Finally,  breaking  a  silence  of  several 
minutes,  the  old  man  spoke. 

"This  is  the  home  of  my  fathers,"  he  said. 
"All  that  is  left.  They  counted  their  land  in 
hundreds  of  acres.  Now  only  a  few  acres  re 
main,  just  as  much  as  you  can  see.  What  little 
is  left  will  go  when  I  go  and  the  Carrillo  home 
will  be  no  more." 

John  felt  the  mood  of  the  elderly  aristocrat 
of  other  days.  He  stood  silent. 

"Where  you  stand  Pio  Pico  once  took  me,  as 
a  child,  in  his  arms.  Here  we  danced  and  sang 
and  loved  and  lived  and  here  also  will  I  die." 

Consuello  and  her  mother  returned  and  they 
walked  out  to  the  waiting  automobile. 

"I  have  never  had  such  a  delightful  day," 
John  said  to  her  father  and  mother  as  they  took 
their  seats  in  the  machine.  "I  thank  you — from 
the  bottom  of  my  heart." 

"Come  often,  my  boy,  the  home  of  the  Car- 
rillos  is  always  open  to  a  friend  of  Mi  Prima 
vera,"  said  Don  Ygnacio. 

They  rode  in  silence  for  many  miles,  the  au 
tomobile  humming  over  the  smooth,  deserted 


80  SPRING  STREET 

boulevards  almost  as  bright  as  day  in  the  moon 
light. 

Then  Consuello  spoke. 

"I  always  hate  to  leave  them  there — they 
seem  so  lonely,"  she  said. 

"You  must  leave  them?"  John  asked  in 
surprise. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  slowly,  softly,  thoughtfully. 

She  offered  no  explanation.  John  wondered 
why  it  was.  He  had  always  thought  of  her  as 
the  daughter  of  a  family  financially  comfort 
able,  perhaps  wealthy.  He  recalled  that  there 
was  no  automobile  or  garage  at  the  Carrillo 
home  and  that  they  were  riding  in  a  machine 
some  one  had  put  at  her  disposal.  Her  name, 
he  knew,  as  a  Carrillo  was  enough  to  admit  her 
to  such  homes  as  the  Barton  Randolphs. 

The  words  of  her  father — "this  is  all  that  is 
left,  what  you  see  around  you" — came  back  to 
him.  Could  it  possibly  be  that  they  were  ac 
tually  poor? 

Because  it  was  late  she  insisted  upon  taking 
him  to  his  home. 

"Sometime,"  he  said  as  they  parted,  "I  want 
you  to  meet  my  mother." 

"I  should  like  to  very,  very  much,"  she  an 
swered.  "And  we  must  see  each  other  again, 


soon." 


'You  have  already  made  a  dream  come  true," 


SPRING  STREET  81 

he  said.     "I  shall  never  forget  your  kindness." 

"Do  not  think  of  it  that  way,"  she  said. 
"We  shall  be  friends,  very  good  friends,  I  am 
sure.  Good  night." 

"Good  night  and — thank  you,"  he  said. 

That  night  he  lay  awake  until  past  midnight, 
recalling  everything  that  happened  during  the 
day.  His  thoughts  of  Consuello  gave  place  to 
speculation  of  what  had  become  of  Gibson  and 
what  would  develop  with  his  return  in  the  com 
ing  week. 

Early  Monday  morning  Brennan  and  John 
were  called  to  the  city  editor's  desk  and  P.  Q. 
ordered  them  to  renew  their  search  for  Gibson. 

"Drop  everything  else  and  don't  stop  until 
you  find  him,"  he  said.  "As  you  say,  Brennan, 
he's  up  to  something  and  it's  up  to  us  to  keep 
our  eyes  wide  open.  The  mayor  is  sitting  tight 
on  Gibson's  ultimatum  on  Chief  Sweeney's  res 
ignation  and  Sweeney's  out  this  morning  with  a 
demand  that  Gibson  co-operate  with  him  and 
the  department  in  his  campaign.  Get  to  work 
now  and  find  Gibson." 

"I  was  thinking,"  said  Brennan,  "that  Gib 
son's  friend,  Miss  Carrillo,  might  know  where 
he  was.  Gallant  here  should  be  able  to  find  out 
what  she  knows." 

"Miss  Carrillo  knows  no  more  than  we  do," 
John  volunteered. 


82  SPRING  STREET 

"What  makes  you  think  so?"  asked  Brennan. 

"She  told  me." 

"When?" 

"Yesterday." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"Gibson  told  her  that  important  business  was 
taking  him  away  and  that  he  would  be  back 
sometime  this  week." 

"And  she  has  no  idea  of  what  he's  doing?" 

"None  whatever." 

"Well,"  said  Brennan.  "That's  that.  Come 
on,  Gallant,  let's  be  going." 

The  first  edition  of  their  newspaper  carried 
Sweeney's  statement  calling  upon  Gibson  to 
work  with  him  instead  of  against  him  and  the 
department  in  his  effort  to  clean  up  the  city. 

"If  Commissioner  Gibson  has  any  evidence 
that  Los  Angeles  is  wide  open,  as  he  says,  he 
should  turn  it  over  to  the  police  department  and 
I'll  guarantee  that  conditions  will  be  remedied 
before  morning,"  Sweeney's  statement  read. 
"The  police  department  is  functioning.  I'll  stay 
on  the  job  until  the  mayor  removes  me. 

"I  deny  the  commissioner's  charge  that  graft 
exists  in  the  department  and  that  the  city  is  wide 
open.  Let  him  come  out  and  put  his  cards  on 
the  table,  face  up.  If  he  has  any  reason  to  hesi 
tate  to  take  me  into  his  confidence,  why  doesn't 
he  say  so.  He  speaks  of  the  fair  name  of  Los 


SPRING  STREET  83 

Angeles  being  dragged  in  the  mire.  I  claim 
he  is  broadcasting  that  the  city  is  wide  open 
without  tangible  substantiation  of  his  charge." 

Brennan  puffed  at  his  inevitable  cigarette  as 
they  headed  for  Gibson's  office. 

"She  said  she  had  no  idea  where  he  is  and 
what  he  is  doing,  did  she?"  said  Brennan. 
"How  come  you  thought  of  asking  her  about 
it?" 

"She  mentioned  it  to  me,"  evaded  John,  re 
luctant  to  relate  the  details  of  his  conversation 
with  Consuello.  There  appeared  no  reason,  he 
thought,  to  bring  her  into  the  situation  precip 
itated  by  Gibson's  disappearance. 

They  went  over  the  ground  they  had  covered 
the  week  before  in  searching  for  Gibson,  but 
were  unable  to  uncover  a  single  piece  of  infor 
mation  concerning  the  commissioner's  where 
abouts.  At  his  office  his  secretary  told  them 
that  he  had  not  seen  nor  heard  from  him  since 
the  day  he  disappeared. 

"Aren't  you  a  bit  concerned  about  his  unusual 
absence?"  asked  Brennan. 

"No,  you  see  he  told  me  he  would  be  back 
sometime  this  week  and  cautioned  me  not  to 
seek  to  locate  him,"  the  secretary  answered. 

"Wherever  he  is,  he's  certainly  covered  up 
his  tracks  well,"  commented  Brennan  as  they 
left. 


84  SPRING  STREET 

"What  about  Sweeney — is  he  square?"  John 
asked. 

"I  don't  know  anything  against  the  chief,'1' 
Brennan  said.  "It  seems  to  me  he  has  the  town 
as  clean  as  it  has  ever  been.  I  think  he's 
straight.  I  think  most  of  the  men  in  the  de 
partment  are  straight.  Some  of  them  are  graft 
ing — there  are  always  a  few  crooks  in  any 
large  body  of  men — and  the  chief  has  always 
fired  them  as  fast  as  he  found  them. 

"That's  what  makes  me  inclined  to  believe 
that  Gibson  may  be  off  on  the  wrong  foot. 
That  and  one  other  thing." 

"What?"  asked  John,  expecting  to  hear 
another  skeptical  dissertation  by  Brennan  on 
Gibson's  motives. 

"Because  the  mayor  and  Sweeney  are  hated 
by  'Gink'  Cummings,"  said  Brennan.  "If  Los 
Angeles  ever  had  a  boss  of  the  underworld,  the 
'Gink'  is  the  man.  He  bosses  everything,  gam 
bling,  stickups,  bookmakers,  pickpockets,  bunko 
men,  street  walking  women  and  dope  peddling. 

"He's  been  out  to  get  Sweeney  and  the  mayor 
ever  since  they  took  office.  Whoever  the 
'Gink's'  against  you  can  bet  all  you  have  is 
straight.  Until  the  mayor  and  Sweeney  stepped 
in  the  'Gink'  had  everything  his  own  way.  If 
the  department  is  as  rotten  as  Gibson  says  it  is 
then  you  can  blame  it  on  the  'Gink.'  Gibson 


SPRING  STREET  85 

must  know  him.  I've  been  wondering  why  he 
hasn't  come  out  with  a  blast  about  him." 

"Perhaps  that's  why  he  disappeared — work 
ing  to  get  Cummings,"  John  suggested. 

"Maybe,"  said  Brennan.  "I've  thought  of 
that,  too.  What  I  can't  understand,  though,  is 
why  Gibson  wants  Sweeney  fired  when  the  chief 
is  the  'Gink's'  worst  enemy." 

That  afternoon  they  heard  from  Gibson. 
The  secretary  of  the  missing  commissioner 
called  them  by  telephone  and  they  hurried  to  his 
office.  He  handed  them  a  sealed  envelope  ad 
dressed,  "Brennan  and  Gallant."  Brennan 
tore  it  open  and  extracted  two  sheets  of  paper. 

At  the  bottom  of  one  of  the  sheets  appeared 
Gibson's  signature.  It  was  a  statement  issued 
by  the  commissioner  for  publication  and  read: 

"I  feel  that  the  mayor  has  had  a  reasonable 
amount  of  time  in  which  to  consider  my  request 
for  the  removal  of  Chief  Sweeney.  Unless  such 
action  is  taken  by  noon  tomorrow  I  will  know 
that  the  mayor  is  against  me  instead  of  with 
me  in  my  efforts  to  clean  up  Los  Angeles.  In 
that  event  I  will  endeavor  to  put  before  the 
people  of  this  city  satisfactory  evidence  of  my 
charge  that  the  police  department  is  disorgan 
ized,  inefficient  and  honeycombed  with  graft." 

The  other  sheet  was  a  brief  note  to  Bren- 


86  SPRING  STREET 

nan  and  John  which  was  marked  "Strictly  Con 
fidential." 

"Don't  try  to  find  me,"  it  read.  "There  is  no 
reason  for  you  to  worry  about  my  continued 
absence.  Tomorrow  night,  if  the  mayor  does 
not  ask  for  Sweeney's  resignation,  be  at  your 
office  at  6  o'clock  and  you  will  hear  from  me. 
I'll  probably  have  a  real  story  for  you." 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  said  Brennan,  show 
ing  as  much  excitement  as  John  had  ever  seen 
him  give  way  to. 

Gibson's  ultimatum  demanding  Sweeney's 
resignation  by  noon  of  the  next  day  was  printed 
under  another  heavy  black  headline  and 
brought  the  situation  to  a  crisis.  The  chief  re 
peated  his  declaration  that  he  would  stay  in 
office  until  the  mayor  called  for  his  resignation 
and  the  mayor  locked  himself  in  his  office  at  the 
city  hall.  Only  those  the  mayor  sent  for,  to  con 
fer  with  concerning  the  predicament  in  which 
Gibson's  latest  statement  had  placed  him,  were 
admitted  to  his  office. 

The  organizations  that  Gibson  had  named  as 
standing  behind  him  in  his  crusade  came  out 
with  hastily  adopted  resolutions  indorsing  him 
and  stating  openly  that  they  would  consider  it 
as  a  "hostile"  move  if  the  mayor  refused  to 
oust  the  police  chief.  Principal  among  these 
commendations  of  Gibson  was  that  of  the  min- 


SPRING  STREET  87 

isterial  association,  an  organization  recognized 
throughout  Los  Angeles  as  determined  to  keep 
the  city  clean  and  free  from  political  graft  and 
bribery. 

Tuesday  morning  the  mayor  took  his  stand. 
He  announced  that  he  could  not  accede  to  Gib 
son's  demand  for  Chief  Sweeney's  removal. 

"Commissioner  Gibson  has  failed  to  furnish 
me  with  any  evidence  to  support  his  charges 
against  Chief  Sweeney  and  the  police  depart 
ment,"  the  mayor's  statement  read.  "In  the 
absence  of  such  information,  I  cannot  see  why 
I  should  ask  for  Chief  Sweeney's  resignation. 
It  would  be  manifestly  unfair  to  remove  a  man 
like  Sweeney  without  proof  of  a  sufficient  rea 
son  for  such  action." 

"It's  a  war  now — war  to  the  finish,"  said 
Brennan,  who  waited  at  the  city  hall  until  after 
1  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  half  expecting  the 
mayor  to  accede  to  Gibson's  demand  at  the  last 
minute  or  to  see  Gibson  appear  with  evidence 
against  Sweeney  to  force  his  removal.  But  the 
mayor  "stood  pat"  and  Gibson  remained  away. 

The  office  was  deserted  as  they  waited  that 
night  for  the  call  Gibson  promised  he  would 
make  at  6  o'clock.  They  showed  Gibson's  note 
to  P.  Q.  when  they  reached  the  office  with  it  and 
he  had  given  them  rather  unnecessary  instruc 
tions  to  be  on  the  job. 

"Don't  get  lost  or  wander  away,"  he  said. 


88  SPRING  STREET 

"I've  ordered  Benton  to  be  here  with  you  and 
I'll  be  at  home  if  you  want  me  in  a  hurry." 

Benton  was  the  staff  photographer. 

Brennan  covered  the  top  of  his  desk  with 
cigaret  stubs,  stood  on  end  in  his  characteristic 
way,  as  the  hands  of  the  clock  neared  6. 

"I  hope  Gibson  is  letting  us  have  this  alone — 
didn't  tip  the  other  papers,"  he  said. 

Sharply  at  the  appointed  time  the  telephone 
bell  tinkled  and  Brennan  lifted  the  receiver. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "This  is  Brennan.  Yes,  he's 
here. — Where? — All  right,  we'll  be  right 
down." 

"He's  at  his  office,"  Brennan  explained  and 
they  started  away,  the  photographer  trailing 
them. 

The  door  of  Gibson's  office  was  locked  when 
they  reached  it.  Brennan  rapped. 

"Who  is  it?"  they  heard  Gibson's  voice  ask 
from  the  other  side. 

"Brennan  and  Gallant." 

The  key  turned  in  the  lock  and  the  door 
opened.  They  scarcely  recognized  Gibson  as 
he  stood  before  them.  He  wore  a  peaked  cap 
pulled  down  over  his  eyes,  a  flannel  shirt  and 
a  well  worn  suit,  spotted  with  grease  and  oil. 
A  stubble  of  black  beard  covered  his  face  and 
his  hands  were  black  and  grimy. 

"Come  in,  boys,"  he  said,  laughing.  "Some 
thing's  going  to  happen  before  morning." 


CHAPTER  VI 

IBSON  carefully  locked  the  door  behind 
them  as  they  entered  and  led  them  to  an 
inner  office,  the  door  of  which  he  also  locked. 
The  blinds  of  the  window  were  down  in  this 
room  and  an  electric  globe  over  Gibson's  desk 
furnished  the  only  light. 

As  the  commissioner  pulled  the  cap  from  his 
head  and  seated  himself  at  his  desk,  motioning 
them  to  other  chairs,  John  was  astonished  by 
the  change  in  his  appearance.  His  hair,  usually 
so  perfectly  combed,  was  tousled  and  unkempt 
and  his  eyes  were  a  trifle  bloodshot.  He 
noticed  that  Brennan  was  also  studying  Gibson 
questioningly. 

"I  gave  you  something  of  a  surprise,  didn't 
I?"  said  Gibson  with  a  laugh,  as  he  saw  the  re 
porters  examining  him. 

"You  certainly  did,"  said  Brennan.  "I've 
been  trying  to  figure  out  what's  coming." 

"No  need,"  said  Gibson.  "I'll  tell  you  every 
thing.  But  before  I  begin  I  must  ask  you  to 
pledge  yourselves  to  secrecy.  Not  a  word  of 
what  I  am  about  to  tell  you  must  be  breathed 
to  a  soul  until  I  give  permission.  I'm  going  to 
put  my  trust  in  you  boys  and  you  must  also 


90  SPRING  STREET 

agree  to  go  through  with  your  parts  in  what  I 
am  going  to  place  before  you.  Is  it  a  go?" 

John  waited  for  Brennan  to  answer. 

"You  can  rely  on  us,"  Brennan  said,  and  John 
nodded  his  assent  when  Gibson  looked  to  him 
for  confirmation. 

Gibson  drew  a  watch  from  his  vest  pocket 
and  glanced  at  it.  John  noticed  that  it  was  a 
cheap  nickel-plated  timepiece  instead  of  the  thin 
gold  one  he  had  seen  the  commissioner  wear 
previously. 

"I'll  have  to  talk  fast,"  Gibson  said.  "I 
haven't  any  time  to  spare.  Every  minute  counts 
now  and  as  I  tell  you  my  story  you'll  under 
stand.  Pay  close  attention  because  you  must 
grasp  the  situation  thoroughly." 

The  last  admonition  was  superfluous.  Bren 
nan  and  John  were  on  the  edge  of  their  chairs. 

"I'll  begin  at  the  beginning,"  he  continued. 
"About  a  week  ago  one  of  the  detectives  I 
have  employed  to  help  me  in  my  crusade  came 
to  me  with  information  concerning  a  plot  to 
wreck  and  rob  the  Southern  Pacific  passenger 
train  'Lark'  near  Los  Angeles.  He  told  me 
that  the  man  planning  the  robbery  was  known 
as  'Red  Mike,'  an  ex-convict  with  a  grudge 
against  the  Southern  Pacific.  He  had  run 
across  'Mike'  in  a  Los  Angeles  street  rooming 
house. 


SPRING  STREET  91 

"This  detective  gained  'Red  Mike's'  confi 
dence  and  he  wanted  him  to  join  with  him  in  the 
wrecking  of  the  'Lark.'  My  detective  learned 
from  'Red  Mike'  that  he  planned  to  throw  the 
'Lark'  into  a  ditch  by  placing  a  derailer  on  the 
track  at  a  point  in  the  hills  a  short  distance  from 
the  city  and  to  rob  the  mail  car  in  the  confusion 
of  the  wreck. 

"  'Red  Mike'  said  he  could  not  carry  the  thing 
through  himself,  that  he  needed  a  partner,  some 
one  to  help  him  carry  away  the  loot  and  drive 
an  automobile  in  which  they  were  to  escape  over 
the  border  into  Mexico.  My  detective  told  me 
that  'Red  Mike'  was  desperate  and  knew  his 
business. 

"When  I  heard  this  story  I  decided  to  thwart 
'Red  Mike'  myself.  I  told  my  detective  I  would 
act  the  part  of  'Red  Mike's'  partner  and  frus 
trate  his  fiendish  plot  at  the  last  minute  so  that 
I  could  have  evidence  enough  to  send  him  to 
the  penitentiary  for  life.  I  outfitted  myself  in 
the  clothes  in  which  you  see  me  and  bought  a 
car  so  that  my  disguise  as  a  rent-car  driver 
would  be  complete." 

Brennan  lighted  a  fresh  cigarette,  carefully 
standing  its  predecessor  on  end  on  Gibson's 
highly  polished  table. 

"When  I  disappeared  from  my  office  I  went 
with  my  detective  to  'Red  Mike.'  We  had  to 


92  SPRING  STREET 

work  carefully  so  as  to  get  'Red  Mike's'  com 
plete  confidence.  I  have  been  living  with  'Mike' 
ever  since  and  tonight  he  means  to  go  through 
with  it.  He  has  everything  ready.  Last  night 
he  took  me  to  where  he  plans  to  wreck  the 
'Lark'  and  we  rehearsed  what  we  are  to  do. 
We  are  to  put  the  derailer  on  the  track,  send  the 
train  into  the  ditch  and,  during  the  confusion, 
rob  the  mail  car  and  make  our  getaway  in  the 
machine. 

"And  this  is  how  I  have  arranged  to  save 
the  'Lark'  and  get  'Red  Mike'  red-handed. 
The  Southern  Pacific  superintendent  knows  all 
this  and  will  bring  the  'Lark'  to  a  stop  as  close 
to  the  derailer  on  the  track  as  he  can.  My  de 
tectives  will  be  hidden  all  around.  As  the  train 
pulls  to  a  stop  they'll  close  in  and  everything 
will  be  over." 

John  gasped  at  the  sheer  audacity  of  the 
story  as  it  fell  from  Gibson's  lips.  He  saw 
Brennan,  his  eyes  glittering,  nervously  taking 
deep  inhales  of  tobacco  smoke. 

"Now,  this  is  what  you  are  to  do,"  Gibson 
continued.  "You  will  go  with  my  detectives 
and  see  the  whole  show  with  your  own  eyes. 
You  will  be  the  only  reporters  with  them.  I 
am  to  meet  'Red  Mike'  at  7  and  go  with  him. 
You  can  understand  how  essential  it  is  that 
everything  goes  just  as  I  planned  it.  If  there's 
a  slip-up  anywhere  it  means  my  life.  'Red 


SPRING  STREET  93 

Mike'  has  told  me  that  he'll  kill  me  if  he  finds 
that  he  has  been  double-crossed. 

"That's  all  I  need  to  tell  you,  I  think,  ex 
cept  that  you  will  meet  my  detectives  outside 
this  building  at  half  past  seven.  I'm  doing  this 
to  save  the  lives  of  the  passengers  on  the  'Lark' 
and  to  show  the  people  of  Los  Angeles  that  the 
detectives  of  the  police  department,  as  I  have 
charged,  aren't  on  their  jobs.  It  should  con 
vince  them  that  there  is  something  at  least  in 
what  I  have  been  saying." 

He  glanced  at  his  watch  again. 

"It's  half  past  six  now,"  he  said.  "I  must 
get  out  of  here.  'Red  Mike'  is  waiting  for  me 
and  I  can't  let  him  become  suspicious." 

He  rose  from  his  chair. 

"By  the  way,  have  you  boys  guns?"  he  asked. 
Brennan  and  John  answered  negatively  by  shak 
ing  their  heads.  He  reached  into  a  drawer  of 
his  desk  and  drew  out  two  automatic  pistols. 

"My  detectives  will  carry  rifles  and  sawed- 
off  shotguns,"  he  said,  handing  the  pistols  to 
the  reporters.  "You  boys  might  as  well  have 
these." 

He  hesitated,  a  half-smile  on  his  lips. 

"You  may  need  them,"  he  added. 

John  saw  Brennan  look  at  Gibson  with  what 
he  thought  was  unbounded  admiration.  The 
commissioner  held  out  his  hand. 


94  SPRING  STREET 

"Well,  Brennan,"  he  said.  "What  do  you 
think  of  it?" 

"It's  a  peach,"  Brennan  said,  taking  Gibson's 
hand.  "And  here's  luck,  Mr.  Commissioner. 
I'll  hand  it  to  you,  you've  got  nerve." 

Gibson  smiled  again  as  he  turned  to  John. 

"And  you,  Gallant?"  he  asked. 

"I  hope "  he  began. 

"I  know  you  do,"  Gibson  said.  "Do  you 
know  why  I  let  you  and  Brennan  in  on  this?" 

Oddly,  a  thought  of  Consuello  came  into 
John's  mind. 

"Well,"  Gibson  explained,  "I  saw  you  that 
night  you  mixed  it  with  Battling  Rodriguez  out 
at  Vernon.  I  knew  I  could  trust  any  man  who 
took  what  you  got  and  kept  going  until  you 
dropped." 

"Thanks,"  John  managed  to  say. 

Gibson  opened  the  door  to  his  outer  office 
and  caught  sight  of  Benton,  the  photographer, 
waiting  there. 

"What  about  your  photographer?"  he  asked. 

"We'll  take  care  of  him,"  Brennan  gave  the 
assurance. 

"All  right,  see  you  later,"  said  the  police  com 
missioner,  going  out  and  closing  the  door  be 
hind  him.  They  heard  him  hurrying  away. 
John  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  twenty  min 
utes  to  seven.  Brennan  stood  still,  watching 
the  door  through  which  Gibson  had  gone  for 
several  minutes  and  then  turned  quickly. 


SPRING  STREET  95 

"Well?"  he  said. 

"What  do  you  say?"  said  John. 

"Let's  go,"  Brennan  said  snapping  out  his 
words.  "We're  in  on  something  big." 

The  photographer  followed  them  to  the  ele 
vator  and  down  to  the  street  where  they  waited 
for  Gibson's  detectives. 

"What's  doing?"  Benton  asked. 

"Can  you  work  that  camera  of  yours  with  a 
load  of  buckshot  whistling  by  your  head  ?"  asked 
Brennan. 

"Hot  stuff,  huh?"  Benton  asked,  eagerly. 
John  saw  that  the  photographer's  face  actually 
brightened  at  the  prospect  of  something  out  of 
the  usual.  Brennan  told  him,  in  short  graphic 
sentences,  what  was  before  them. 

"Gosh  darn!"  Benton  ejaculated.  "Hot  dog 
and  sweet  puppies!" 

As  an  outlet  for  his  excitement  he  danced  a 
queer  little  jig  on  the  sidewalk,  muttering  a 
rhythmic  verse  as  he  shuffled  his  feet.  At  the 
termination  of  each  heavily  accented  line  he 
slapped  his  right  foot  down  loudly.  As  he 
jigged  his  voice  grew  louder  until  John  could 
discern  the  familiar  lines  from  Kipling: 

"It  was  'Din!  Din!  Din!' 

'Ere's  a  beggar  with  a  bullet  through  'is  spleen; 

'E's  chawin'  up  the  ground, 

An'  he's  kickin'  all  around; 

For  Gawd's  sake,  git  the  water,  Gunga  Din!" 


96  SPRING  STREET 

In  a  few  minutes  three  automobiles,  follow 
ing  each  other  closely,  wheeled  into  the  curb. 
A  man  in  the  front  seat  of  the  first  car  motioned 
to  them. 

"Brennan  and  Gallant?"  he  asked,  brusquely. 
"Who's  that  with  you?" 

uOur  photographer,"  Brennan  explained. 

"All  right,  get  in." 

They  clambered  into  the  tonneau  and  the 
machine  shot  away  from  the  curb,  followed  by 
the  other  two. 

"Well,  we're  on  our  way,"  said  Brennan,  set 
tling  back  in  the  cushions. 

Absent-mindedly  Benton  resumed  his  half 
chant  song. 

"You  may  talk  o'  gin  and  beer, 
When  you're  quartered  safe  out  'ere, 
An'  you're   sent  to  penny-fights   an' 
Alder— SHOT-IT " 

The  crowds  on  the  streets  as  the  three  au 
tomobiles  wove  their  way  through  the  traffic 
were  that  curious  mixture  of  workers  leaving 
late  for  their  homes  and  pleasure  seekers  com 
ing  downtown  for  the  first  performances  at  the 
motion  picture  theaters,  which  is  such  an  in 
teresting  spectacle  on  Broadway,  Spring,  Hill 
and  Main  streets  at  twilight.  In  the  fading 
light  of  the  day  the  electric  signs  sparkled  with 
less  brilliancy  than  they  show  when  it  actually 
is  night. 


SPRING  STREET  97 

Like  some  huge  disjointed  monster  with  thou 
sands  of  glaring  eyes  the  long  line  of  automo 
biles  moved  slowly  along  the  streets,  only  a  yard 
separating  them.  Street  cars  formed  in  an  al 
most  solid  line  along  the  tracks.  Lights  in  the 
upper  story  rooms  of  the  business  blocks 
snapped  out,  one  by  one,  like  the  blinking  of 
fireflies. 

John  looked  into  the  faces  of  the  throng 
hurrying  along  the  sidewalks  and  thought  how 
strange  it  was  that  none  of  them  even  remotely 
realized  that  an  attempt  to  wreck  the  "Lark" 
was  to  be  foiled  within  a  couple  of  hours.  The 
automobiles  passed  unnoticed  in  the  everlasting 
flow  of  traffic.  Tomorrow  morning,  he  thought, 
these  people  would  read  of  what  had  occurred 
and  hail  Gibson  as  a  hero.  The  police  com 
missioner,  already  the  most  discussed  man  in 
the  city,  would  then  be  accepted  unqualifiedly 
as  a  crusader  not  only  sincere  but  courageous. 

It  was  a  great  move !  There  could  be  no 
doubt  of  Gibson's  courage  and  rightful  pur 
pose  now.  He  was  facing  death  to  save  others 
and  to  defeat  an  attempted  horror.  How  like 
a  "thriller"  it  was  to  be  rushing  toward  such  a 
gripping  scene ! 

What  if  "Red  Mike"  discovered  at  the  last 
minute  that  he  had  been  trapped?  Then  it 
would  be  only  a  question  of  the  first  shot  be 
tween  him  and  Gibson.  Suddenly  John  thought 


98  SPRING  STREET 

of  Consuello.  How  proud  she  would  be  made 
by  Gibson's  dramatic  coup !  John  envied  Gib 
son  in  that  moment  which  he  now  pictured, 
when  Gibson  would  meet  Consuello  after  it 
was  all  over. 

The  automatic  that  Gibson  had  given  him 
dug  into  his  side  as  he  slouched  back  in  the  seat. 
He  drew  it  and  put  it  into  his  coat  pocket.  The 
touch  of  the  cold  steel  brought  home  to  him 
that  he,  too,  was  to  be  a  participant  in  the  frus 
tration  of  the  train  wrecking. 

Out  of  the  downtown  traffic  the  three  ma 
chines  increased  their  speed.  John  glanced  at 
his  watch.  It  was  a  quarter  past  seven.  At 
eight  o'clock  the  "Lark"  would  pull  out  of  the 
Arcade  station  loaded  with  men,  women  and 
children,  little  suspecting  the  danger  from 
which  they  were  to  be  saved.  What  if  some 
thing  should  go  wrong?  Suppose  "Red  Mike" 
was  already  at  the  scene,  making  it  impossible 
for  Gibson's  detectives  to  surround  him  with 
out  being  seen? 

Night  was  settling  down  rapidly.  He  noticed 
there  was  only  a  quarter  moon  and  realized  that 
the  darkness  had  been  a  part  of  "Red  Mike's" 
nefarious  plotting.  He  turned  to  Brennan, 
whose  tensely  set  face  was  lighted  for  a  frac 
tion  of  a  second  by  the  accelerated  burning  of 
his  cigarette  as  he  took  a  deep  inhale. 

"I  don't  like  to  be  a  'Gloomy  Gus,'  "  Bren- 


SPRING  STREET  99 

nan  said,  "but  what  was  it  General  Wolfe  said 
before  the  battle  on  the  'Plains  of  Abraham'  at 
Quebec — 'The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the 
grave' — wasn't  it?" 

John  almost  resented  the  inference  of  "glory 
seeking"  by  Gibson,  and  Brennan's  cool  way  of 
suggesting  that  the  commissioner  might  meet 
his  death.  Brennan  seemed  to  sense  his  un 
spoken  exception  to  what  he  had  said. 

"Oh,  don't  misunderstand  me,"  he  said.  "It 
only  popped  into  my  head,  I  don't  know  why. 
And  Wolfe,  you  know,  was  a  braggart  who 
made  good.  He  died  on  the  'Plains  of  Abra 
ham'  after  distributing  Montcalm's  army  of 
Frenchmen  all  over  the  landscape." 

John  blamed  Brennan's  cynicism  for  prevent 
ing  him  from  viewing  Gibson  as  he  did. 

At  a  word  from  the  man  beside  him  the 
driver  of  their  car  slowed  down  the  machine 
and  brought  it  to  a  stop.  They  could  hear  the 
creaking  of  brakes  on  the  other  machines  fol 
lowing  them  as  they  stopped  close  behind. 

"Here  we  are,"  said  the  man,  leaving  the 
front  seat  of  the  car.  "Duck  that  cigarette, 
Brennan.  Remember,  no  smoking  or  talking. 
You  boys  follow  me  and  do  what  I  tell  you. 
One  misstep  and  you're  liable  to  get  the  com 
missioner  killed.  And  you" — he  turned  to  Ben- 
ton — "don't  you  try  shooting  any  pictures  until 
Mr.  Gibson  gives  the  word,  understand?" 


100  SPRING  STREET 

John  counted  fourteen  men  from  the  two 
other  machines.  They  walked  silently  along  a 
dusty,  narrow  path  breaking  off  from  the  road 
until  they  reached  a  point  where  the  steep  slope 
of  a  hill  confronted  them. 

"Now,  boys,  everyone  understands  what  is  to 
be  done?"  asked  the  man  from  the  automobile 
that  had  carried  the  reporters  and  who  John 
realized  was  in  command. 

The  men  nodded. 

"Then  scatter  out  the  way  we've  planned  it 
and  remember,  we  close  in  on  them  when  Gib 
son  gives  the  signal,  not  before." 

A  queer,  nervous  feeling  gripped  the  pit  of 
John's  stomach  as  he  followed  with  Benton  and 
Brennan  behind  the  man  who  led  them  up  the 
hill  as  the  others  branched  out  in  pairs  through 
the  brush,  spreading  out  in  a  semi-circle. 

"They  each  have  their  stations,"  the  man 
told  Brennan.  "They  know  what  to  do." 

Reaching  the  crest  of  the  hill  they  swung 
down  the  embankment  to  their  right  and  stop 
ped  behind  a  clump  of  bushes.  Below  them,  a 
hundred  feet  down,  John  made  out  the  railroad 
track.  To  the  left  they  looked  down  into  a 
deep  gully.  On  the  other  side  of  the  track  was 
a  deep  ravine,  dropping  abruptly  from  the 
roadbed. 

"They'll    wait    down    there,"    the    detective 


SPRING  STREET  101 

explained,  pointing  to  the  gully.  "He'll  put  the 
derailer  on  the  track  so  as  to  throw  the  cars 
over  to  the  other  side  in  that  ditch." 

He  squatted  down  behind  the  clump  of 
bushes  and  the  others  followed  his  example. 
John  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  ten  minutes 
to  eight. 

"It's  due  here  at  8:18,"  said  the  detective. 

"I'd  give  ten  years  of  my  bright  young  life 
for  a  cigarette,"  said  Brennan,  sighing  heavily. 

The  detective  produced  a  thick  moist  plug  of 
chewing  tobacco,  gnawed  at  the  corners. 

"Here  you  are,"  he  said,  offering  it  to  the 
sufferer. 

"Don't,  don't,"  said  Brennan,  waving  it 
aside.  "I'd  swallow  it  sure." 

John  felt  his  heart  thumping  against  his  ribs. 
Try  as  he  might  he  could  not  stop  himself 
from  breathing  in  quick,  short  little  gasps. 
This  detective  and  his  men  were  so  certain 
about  things.  How  did  they  know  but  some 
thing  might  have  gone  wrong?  Perhaps  Gib 
son  and  "Red  Mike"  were  "shooting  it  out" 
along  the  road  somewhere  now.  He  looked 
again  at  his  watch.  It  was  three  minutes  to 
eight.  Only  seven  minutes  had  passed  since 
they  arrived.  Incredulous  he  held  the  watch  to 
his  ear.  It  was  ticking  regularly. 


102  SPRING  STREET 

Benton  pulled  himself  on  his  elbows  to 
John's  side. 

"You   may   talk   o'    gin  and  beer, 

When    you're    quartered    safe    out    'ere — " 

he  began. 

"That's  enough  of  that,"  ordered  Brennan, 
and  Benton's  chant  stopped. 

The  detective  raised  himself  to  his  knees  and 
held  his  head  high,  listening.  The  roar  of  a 
motor  being  raced  as  it  was  switched  off  came 
to  their  ears. 

"That's  them,"  said  the  detective.  "That 
was  Gibson's  signal.  He  was  driving  and  he 
raced  his  engine  to  let  us  know  when  they  got 
here." 

They  waited  for  years,  it  seemed  to  John, 
until  two  dark  figures,  scarcely  discernible  came 
down  the  tracks  toward  them  and  turned  into 
the  gully.  '  He  saw  that  Gibson  and  "Red 
Mike"  were  carrying  something  heavy  between 
them  and  that  "Red  Mike"  also  carried  a  short- 
handled  sledge  hammer. 

He  strained  his  eyes  trying  to  follow  the  fig 
ures  into  the  darker  shadows  of  the  gully  from 
which  they  emerged  shortly. 

"That's  the  derailer  they're  carrying — 
they're  going  to  slap  it  on  the  rail,"  breathed 
the  detective. 

They  could  hear  "Red  Mike"  grunting  as  he 
and  Gibson  struggled  up  the  side  of  the  road- 


SPRING  STREET  103 

bed.  They  saw  "Red  Mike"  adjust  the  de- 
railer  to  the  rail  and  Gibson  kneel  to  hold  a 
spike  as  it  was  hammered  into  the  tie  by  "Red 
Mike"  wielding  the  sledge  hammer.  The 
blows  of  the  hammer  sounded  sharply  on  the 
still  night  air.  They  heard  "Red  Mike"  curse 
viciously  as  he  missed  hitting  the  spike  and 
Gibson  jerked  his  hand  away  a  fraction  of  a 
second  before  the  sledge  would  have  smashed 
it  against  the  rail. 

Four  spikes  were  driven  to  hold  the  derailer. 
Then  Gibson  and  "Red  Mike"  scrambled  back 
into  the  gully,  their  figures  hidden  in  the 
darkness. 

"All  set  down  there,"  whispered  the  detec 
tive,  thus  conveying  to  the  others  the  realiza 
tion  that  the  derailer  was  in  place  to  swerve 
the  guiding  wheels  of  the  big  locomotive  of  the 
"Lark"  and  send  it  crashing  into  the  ditch,  pull 
ing  and  overturning  the  coaches  with  it. 

The  horror  of  what  might  happen  ter 
rorized  John  for  a  moment.  His  body  tingled 
and  perspiration  broke  out  on  his  forehead. 
He  closed  his  eyes.  He  imagined  he  would 
hear  the  roar  of  the  train  as  it  crashed  into  the 
derailer  and  rolled  over  the  embankment — the 
screams  and  cries  of  the  dying  and  injured.  A 
sickening  feeling  swept  him.  He  was  faint.  He 
could  hear  Brennan  breathing  deeply,  the 


104  SPRING  STREET 

breath  whistling  out  through  his  teeth  from  his 
lungs. 

"Gosh  darn!"  Benton  gasped,  as  though  he 
could  hold  himself  no  longer. 

John  reached  for  his  watch.  He  was  tug 
ging  to  pull  it  from  his  pocket  when  the  blast 
of  an  engine  whistle  sounded,  it  seemed,  almost 
beside  them. 

It  was  the  "Lark"  whistling  for  a  crossing 
a  mile  away  as  it  pounded  on  toward  the  de- 
railer,  where  death  and  destruction  yawned. 


CHAPTER    VII 


,"  as  he  called  them,  had  al- 
ways  disgusted  John.  A  book  wherein 
the  hero  overcame  the  villain  by  desperate 
means  and  won  the  girl  by  a  single  stroke  of 
manly  dauntlessness  was  to  him  like  so  much 
trash.  Melodramatic  plays  he  despised.  Grif 
fith's  pictures  were  the  only  ones  in  which  he 
could  tolerate  a  "staged"  thrill. 

It  never  came  into  his  mind  as  he  heard  the 
whistle  of  the  uLark"  flying  a  mile  a  minute 
over  the  rails  to  what  might  be  a  horrible  dis 
aster  that  here  was  a  real  "thriller"  exceeding 
the  imagination  of  any  cheap  novelist,  aspir 
ing  playwright  or  industrious  scenario  writer. 
Later  when  he  rehearsed  in  his  mind  what  hap 
pened  that  night,  he  realized  that  in  fact  truth 
was  often  stranger  than  fiction.  Every  news 
paper  man  eventually  comes  to  the  same  real 
ization. 

In  striking  contrast  to  his  feeling  that  minutes 
were  hours  a  few  moments  before,  it  seemed 
only  five  or  six  seconds  before  the  headlight  of 
the  oncoming  train  pierced  through  the  dark 
ness  of  the  night.  He  felt  that  it  was  coming 
toward  them  faster  than  any  train  had  ever 
traveled.  A  fear  that  there  had  been  a  mis 
take  and  that  the  engineer  could  not  possibly 


106  SPRING  STREET 

bring  the  heavy  train  to  a  stop  before  the  loco 
motive  wheels  struck  the  derailer  seized  him. 

The  detective  was  on  his  feet,  rifle  ready  to 
be  thrown  to  his  shoulder.  Brennan  leaped  up 
and  John  saw  that  he  held  the  automatic  in  his 
hand. 

Then  the  sound  for  which  they  had  so  anx 
iously  waited  came  up  to  them  from  the  track 
below.  They  could  hear  the  brakes  grinding 
and  shrieking  against  the  wheels  of  the  locomo 
tive  and  the  coaches. 

The  detective  dashed  through  the  brush, 
stumbling  and  falling  almost  headlong  as  he 
pitched  himself  down  into  the  gully.  Brennan, 
John  and  Benton  were  at  his  heels.  John's 
right  hand  gripped  the  automatic  Gibson  had 
loaned  him. 

There  was  a  shot,  a  curse,  another  shot. 
Then  it  seemed  to  John  a  thousand  shots  were 
fired.  He  saw  the  detective  throw  the  rifle  to 
his  shoulder  and  there  was  a  spurt  of  flame 
after  a  quick  aim.  In  a  descending  circle  he 
saw  the  flash  of  guns  fired  by  the  other  detec 
tives  coming  down  from  the  hilltop.  He  saw 
Brennan — and  it  surprised  him — shooting 
down  into  the  gully  "throwing"  his  shots  in  the 
cowboy  fashion  he  had  read  of. 

He  tripped  and  fell,  the  automatic  flew  from 
his  hand.  When  he  got  to  his  feet,  slightly 
stunned  by  his  fall,  the  shooting  had  stopped. 


SPRING  STREET  107 

He  ran  into  the  pit  of  the  gully  at  reckless 
speed. 

He  saw  Gibson  on  his  back  on  the  ground, 
two  men  kneeling  at  his  side,  tearing  his  shirt 
from  his  shoulder.  He  saw  a  crimson  stain 
spreading  on  Gibson's  shirt.  A  few  yards  away 
he  saw  "Red  Mike"  spilled  in  a  heap,  hemmed 
in  by  a  ring  of  Gibson's  detectives  each  with 
a  sawed-off  shotgun  pointed  down  at  him. 

"Where's  that  damned  photographer  ?" 
Brennan  demanded. 

"Coming,"  they  heard  a  voice  shout  and 
Benton  was  beside  them,  screwing  his  camera 
into  his  tripod  as  he  hurried  forward. 

"Gibson?"  asked  John,  panting. 

"He's  all  right — bullet  scratch  on  the  shoul 
der — that's  all — he  got  'Red  Mike,'  I  guess," 
Brennan  answered  in  jerks. 

John  looked  toward  the  train.  The  cow 
catcher  of  the  locomotive,  which  stood  panting 
like  some  frightened,  trembling  animal,  was  less 
than  five  feet  from  the  derailer!  He  saw  the 
engineer  of  the  train  lift  his  cap  from  his  head 
and  scratch  his  forehead  with  a  finger  as  he 
contemplated  how  close  his  engine  had  been  to 
destruction. 

Turning  he  found  Gibson  on  his  feet,  pale 
and  haggard,  his  hair  tousled,  his  arm  ban 
daged  to  his  side,  posing  in  the  center  of  a 
group  of  detectives  for  Benton  and  his  camera. 


108  SPRING  STREET 

The  flashlight  boomed  and  a  ghastly  white 
light  lit  up  the  scene  for  the  briefest  fraction 
of  a  second. 

He  followed  Gibson  and  the  detectives  to 
where  "Red  Mike"  lay  sprawling  on  the 
ground.  Electric  torches  held  by  other  de 
tectives  put  the  desperado's  prone  figure  in 
an  arc  of  light. 

Gibson  looked  down  at  "Red  Mike"  in 
silence. 

The  wounded  man — John  could  tell  that 
"Red  Mike"  was  fatally  wounded — turned 
over  on  his  back,  groaning.  His  face,  covered 
with  a  stubble  of  red  beard,  was  drawn  in  pain 
and  his  eyes  seemed  dulled.  Groaning  again  he 
lifted  his  head  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  Gibson. 

"You !"  he  snarled. 

"You  crossed  me,  you !" 

Then  he  dropped  back  into  unconsciousness. 

Six  of  the  detectives  lifted  his  limp  body  and, 
staggering  under  the  load,  started  toward  the 
road  and  the  automobile  Gibson  had  driven. 
They  paused  only  long  enough  for  Benton  to 
snap  another  flashlight. 

By  that  time  the  passengers — who,  when  the 
train  pulled  to  a  sudden  stop  that  was  followed 
by  a  fusillade  of  shots,  believed  it  had  been 
halted  by  bandits — had  recovered  from  their 
confusion  and  were  pouring  out  of  the  coaches, 
swarming  toward  the  locomotive.  A  stout  wo- 


SPRING  STREET  109 

man,  whose  short  hair  straggling  to  her  bare 
shoulders  indicated  that  she  had  been  prepar 
ing  to  retire,  screamed  and  fainted  into  the 
arms  of  a  little  man  who  struggled  desperately 
to  save  her  from  falling  to  the  ground.  Benton 
set  up  his  camera  on  the  track  and  his  flashlight 
boomed  again  as  he  made  a  photograph  of  Gib 
son  standing  beside  the  derailer,  the  locomo 
tive  in  the  background. 

With  much  pointing  of  fingers  and  nodding 
of  heads  it  was  whispered  through  the  crowd 
that  Gibson  was  the  man  who  had  prevented 
the  wreck  and  shot  "Red  Mike,"  who  had  been 
rushed  away  to  a  hospital  in  the  machine  in 
which  he  and  Gibson  had  driven  to  the  scene. 
Men  and  women  in  various  stages  of  dishabille, 
unconscious  of  their  appearance,  pressed 
around  him,  shaking  his  hand.  A  girl  threw 
her  arms  around  his  neck  and  kissed  him.  To 
John  it  was  strikingly  similar  to  the  scene  of  an 
averted  train  wreck  he  had  once  inadvertently 
seen  in  a  motion  picture — if  the  girl  had  been 
Consuello,  dressed,  say,  in  a  neat  and  dashing 
riding  habit  or  some  other  altogether  inappro 
priate  costume. 

A  fat,  white-haired  man — typical  bank  presi 
dent,  John  thought — wrote  out  a  check,  using 
the  cowcatcher  for  a  desk,  and  handed  it  to 
Gibson  with  a  bow. 


110  SPRING  STREET 

John,  standing  near  them,  saw  the  check  was 
for  $5,000. 

"I  cannot  accept  this  for  myself,  sir,"  Gibson 
said.  "I  am  a  police  commissioner  of  the  city 
of  Los  Angeles  and  if  you  will  permit  me  to 
make  such  disposition  of  it  I  will  turn  it  over  to 
some  well  deserving  charity." 

"It's  yours — do  what  you  want  with  it,"  the 
fat  man  said.  As  he  walked  away  John  thought 
that  he  was  fully  pleased  with  himself  for  hav 
ing  given  Gibson  the  check,  that  he  had  paid 
the  man  who  had  saved  his  life  in  dollars  and 
cents  and  what  more  could  he  do? 

"Somebody  give  me  a  cigarette,"  he  heard  a 
voice  plead  and,  turning,  he  found  himself  face 
to  face  with  Brennan. 

"Quick,  someone,  that  man  has  a  weapon!" 
a  woman  shrieked. 

John  saw  Brennan's  automatic  protruding 
from  his  coat  pocket.  Brennan,  who  was  talk 
ing  to  Gibson,  did  not  notice  him  take  the  pistol 
from  him. 

"How  did  it  happen,  Mr.  Commissioner?" 
Brennan  asked. 

"Come  along,  I'll  tell  you  as  we  ride  back  to 
the  city,"  promised  Gibson,  who  shook  the 
hands  thrust  out  in  the  path  that  was  opened 
for  him  as  he  walked  through  the  crowd  to 
ward  the  road  and  the  waiting  automobiles. 

Returning  to  the  city,  Gibson  told  his  story. 


SPRING  STREET  1 1 1 

"Red  Mike,"  he  said,  did  not  become  suspicious 
until  a  second  or  so  before  the  engineer  applied 
the  brakes  to  the  train  and  then  his  suspicion 
seemed  born  of  instinct.  At  the  first  sound  of 
the  screeching  brakes,  he  said  "Red  Mike" 
shot  at  him  and  he  fired  back. 

"I  was  lucky — my  first  shot  got  him,"  Gib 
son  said.  "He  went  down,  but  he  continued 
firing.  He  was  shooting  wild  and  I  wasn't  half 
as  afraid  of  his  shots  as  those  my  men  were 
raining  down  from  the  sides  of  the  hill. 

"I  hope,"  he  said,  with  a  touch  of  regret, 
"that  'Red  Mike'  doesn't  die.  He's  a  bad  one, 
as  bad  as  they  come,  and  should  be  put  some 
place  where  he  can't  do  harm.  I  hope,  though, 
that  he  recovers." 

"He  hasn't  much  to  live  for,"  Brennan  put 
in. 

"No,"  said  Gibson.  "He  told  me  that  he 
had  been  blacklisted  by  the  railroads  because  he 
was  an  I.  W.  W.  Revenge  was  as  much  a  part 
of  his  motive  in  attempting  to  wreck  the  'Lark' 
as  robbery.  I  really  believe  he  might  have  got 
away  with  it  if " 

"If  you  hadn't  been  there,"  John  completed 
the  sentence  for  Gibson. 

"Thanks,  Gallant,"  Gibson  acknowledged. 
"Of  course,  boys,  I'll  have  to  talk  to  the  morn 
ing  newspapermen  when  they  find  me,  but  you 
saw  the  whole  thing  for  yourselves  and  you've 


112  SPRING  STREET 

got  the  only  pictures  made  out  there  where  it 
happened." 

"The  A.  M.'s  will  get  the  break  on  the  story, 
but  we'll  have  the  edge  on  them  at  that,"  said 
Brennan.  "It  was  too  late,  you  know,  for  us  to 
come  out  with  an  extra  unless  you  had  per 
mitted  us  to  tell  our  city  editor  what  was  com 
ing  off." 

They  left  the  automobile  when  it  reached 
their  office. 

"I'm  on  my  way  home  now  to  get  this  doc 
tored  up,"  said  Gibson,  inclining  his  head  to  his 
bandaged  shoulder.  "I  want  a  bath  and  a 
sound  sleep.  I  haven't  had  either  since  I  met 
'Red  Mike.'  Good  night,  boys,  see  you,  to 


morrow." 


As  they  went  into  the  office  to  telephone 
P.  Q.  what  they  had  seen  and  what-  <-'• 
the  first  edition  in  the  morning,  John,  feeling 
certain  of  a  different  answer  than  those  he  had 
received  in  the  past,  asked  Brennan  what  he 
thought  of  Gibson  now. 

"He's  got  nerve,  all  right,"  Brennan  said. 
"But " 

"But  what?"  asked  John,  wondering  what 
possible  criticism  Brennan  could  have  in  view 
of  Gibson's  display  of  courage. 

"But,"  said  Brennan,  "he's  a  grandstander." 

"A  grandstander?"  exclaimed  John. 

"You  said  it,  after  me,"  said  Brennan.     "A 


SPRING  STREET  113 

grandstander,  a  man  who  plays  to  the  crowd  in 
stead  of  playing  the  game  for  what  it's  worth." 

A  surge  of  exasperation  went  through  John. 
Was  this  man  incapable  of  ever  believing  any 
thing  or  in  anyone? 

"Good  heavens,  Brennan!"  he  said,  hotly. 
"He  risked  his  life,  didn't  he?" 

"I  said  he  had  nerve." 

"He  did  it  to  save  others,  didn't  he?" 

"Others?"  said  Brennan  sarcastically. 
"Others?  Bosh!  He  did  it  to  be  a  hero,  for 
public  acclamation,  for  glory,  for  power. 
Others  ?  Why,  don't  you  see  that  he  risked  the 
lives  of  all  those  others  you  say  he  saved  just 
to  make  himself  a  hero?" 

Brennan's  answer,  the  sarcastic  way  he  gave 
it,  maddened  John. 

"Ah,  you  make  me  tired,"  he  said  in  his  ag 
gravation.  "What  do  you  want  to  look  at  it 
that  way  for  ?  You  tell  me  to  keep  my  faith  in 
men,  to  believe  as  much  as  I  can,  and  then  you 
talk  this  way." 

Apparently  ignoring  what  John  said,  Bren 
nan  telephoned  to  P.  Q. 

"Hello,  P.  Q.,"  he  said.  "This  is  Brennan. 
Gibson  has  pulled  off  a  great  stunt,  great  story. 
The  mornings'  will  have  the  break  on  it,  but  we 
have  the  only  pictures  and  lots  of  eye-witness 
stuff." 

He  proceeded  to  give  what  even  John  admit- 


114  SPRING  STREET 

ted  to  himself  was  an  accurate  account  of  the 
attempt  to  wreck  the  "Lark"  and  how  Gibson 
had  saved  the  train  and  "shot  it  out"  with 
"Red  Mike." 

Hanging  up  the  receiver  he  looked  around 
to  find  John  standing  waiting  for  him.  Light 
ing  a  fresh  cigarette  from  the  butt  of  the  one 
he  had  finished  he  motioned  to  John  to  sit 
down. 

"Now,  Gallant,  you  listen  to  me  for  a 
while,"  he  said.  "You  can  believe  what  I'm 
going  to  say  or  not,  but  I'm  going  to  tell  you 
a  few  things.  And  don't  get  the  idea  I'm  just 
talking  for  the  sake  of  hearing  myself  blatt. 

"Hasn't  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  Gibson 
didn't  have  to  go  through  with  this  business  to 
night  at  all?  When  he  discovered  that  'Red 
Mike'  was  going  to  try  to  wreck  the  'Lark'  he 
could  have  had  him  arrested  right  then  and 
sent  him  up  for  a  good  long  stretch. 

"He  didn't  have  to  let  things  go  as  far  as  he 
did.  He  could  have  stopped  it  right  there. 
Why,  he  actually  endangered  the  lives  of  every 
one  on  that  train  simply  to  make  a  big  show  of 
it.  There  wouldn't  have  been  so  much  glory  in 
it  for  him  to  have  arrested  'Red  Mike'  when 
he  found  out  what  he  was  planning  to  do. 

"Sure,  he  had  nerve.  He  did  what  few  of 
us  would  want  to  do,  even  if  we  were  forced  to. 
'Red  Mike'  got  no  more  than  he  deserved,  but 


SPRING  STREET  115 

I  can't  help  thinking  of  him  as  something  of  a 
victim  of  Gibson's  lust  for  glory  and  power  just 
the  same.  A  really  great  man  doesn't  have  to 
make  a  display  of  his  courage  like  Gibson  did. 
A  really  great  man  would  have  been  satisfied 
by  the  realization  that  he  had  prevented  a  dis 
aster  without  endangering  the  lives  of  others. 

"That's  why  I  say  Gibson  is  a  grandstander, 
Gallant.  Understand,  when  I  say  he's  a  grand 
stander  I  don't  mean  that  he  isn't  sincere  in  his 
crusade  to  clean  up  the  city.  He's  simply  a 
grandstander  in  the  way  he  does  things  and 
that  makes  it  impossible  for  him  to  ever  be  a 
truly  big  man. 

uGrandstanders  often  make  good,  but  not  in 
the  way  some  of  us  would  like.  Oftener  they 
fall  down,  tripped  up  by  their  insatiable  desire 
for  public  acclaim.  Full  reward  should  be 
given  to  those  who  do  big  things,  but  they 
shouldn't  do  them  for  the  reward.  They 
should  work  for  the  satisfaction  their  accom 
plishments  bring  to  themselves,  within  them 
selves." 

"I  saw  you  shooting  at  'Red  Mike'  yourself," 
said  John. 

"Certainly,"  said  Brennan.  "Don't  think  I 
class  Gibson  with  criminals  like  'Red  Mike.'  It 
was  either  his  life  or  'Red  Mike's'  and  what 
choice  was  there?  I  confess,  though,  it  was  the 


116  SPRING  STREET 

excitement  more  than  anything  else  that  made 
me  shoot." 

They  were  silent  for  a  few  minutes. 

"Think  it  over,  Gallant,"  said  Brennan,  ris 
ing  and  putting  a  hand  on  John's  shoulder.  UI 
may  sound  like  a  cynic,  but  I'm  not.  There's 
one  thing  that  disgusts  me  more  than  anything 
else  and  that's  selfish  hypocrisy.  I  look  for  the 
real  things  in  life  and  I've  been  disappointed  so 
often  that  I  frequently  misjudge. 

"Remember  we're  newspaper  reporters. 
Whatever  we  think,  whatever  we  feel,  about 
things  must  be  kept  to  ourselves.  It  isn't  our 
opinion  that  people  want  to  read.  It  isn't  how 
things  look  to  us,  but  facts,  truth,  accuracy,  that 
we  must  write.  Opinions  we  must  leave  to  the 
readers  to  form  for  themselves  and  it  is  unfair 
to  give  them  untrue  impressions  for  them  to 
form  their  opinions  from." 

John  carried  Brennan's  words  home  with 
him.  Until  he  dropped  off  to  sleep  he  thought 
them  over.  Perhaps  Gibson  was  a  grand- 
stander,  a  glory  seeker,  after  all — but  was  he  to 
be  blamed  if  what  he  sought  above  all  else  was 
the  admiration  of  one  like  Consuello? 

Gibson's  heroism  in  preventing  the  wreck  of 
the  "Lark"  covered  the  front  pages  and  scat 
tered  throughout  the  inside  pages  of  the  morn 
ing  papers.  The  whole  city  talked  of  him. 
There  were  more  resolutions  of  commendation 


SPRING  STREET  117 

and  he  was  termed  the  "fighting  crusader,"  the 
"man  of  the  hour." 

Spread  across  the  front  page  was  a  statement 
issued  by  Gibson  and  carried  under  the  head 
line  of  "Gibson  Hits  at  Police."  In  this  state 
ment  Gibson  again  condemned  Sweeney  as  in 
efficient. 

"If  my  detectives,  working  where  Sweeney's 
men  ought  to  be,  had  not  discovered  'Red 
Mike's'  plot  the  'Lark'  would  have  been 
wrecked  last  night,  scores  killed,  the  mail  car 
robbed  and  'Red  Mike'  would  have  been  over 
the  border  today,"  a  part  of  the  statement 
read. 

It  was  a  telling  blow  to  the  mayor  and  Police 
Chief  Sweeney.  Gibson  was  sweeping  every 
thing  before  him.  For  the  mayor  or  the  chief 
to  have  detracted  from  Gibson's  act  by  hinting 
that  he  should  have  informed  the  police  and 
caused  "Red  Mike's"  arrest  without  going 
through  with  the  plot  to  the  point  of  assisting 
in  placing  the  derailer  on  the  track  would  have 
been  instantly  resented  as  an  embittered  and  un 
grateful  move — a  cry  of  "sour  grapes." 

During  the  day  John  received  his  first  praise 
from  P.  Q.,  who  called  him  to  his  desk. 

"Brennan  tells  me  that  if  it  had  not  been  for 
you  we  wouldn't  have  been  in  on  Gibson's  little 
party  last  night,"  the  city  editor  said.  "I  told 
you  Gibson  would  be  a  man  worth  knowing. 


1 1 8  SPRING  STREET 

You're  coming  along  splendidly,  Gallant.  Just 
keep  it  up  and  practice  writing.  Read  Bren- 
nan's  stuff  and  study  how  he  does  it.  I'll  give 
you  all  the  chance  you  want  and  there'll  be  a 
little  more  in  your  pay  envelope  this  week." 

John  thanked  him  and  hunted  up  Brennan. 

"It  was  mighty  kind  of  you  to  tell  P.  Q.  that 
I've  helped  you,"  he  said. 

"Forget  it,"  said  Brennan. 

"Your  story  had  all  the  others  beaten  to 
death,"  he  said,  referring  to  what  Brennan  had 
written  of  the  attempted  train  wreck. 

"Forget  that,  too,"  said  Brennan. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  he  heard  from  Con- 
suello.  He  was  considerably  surprised  when  he 
recognized  her  voice. 

"I  do  so  want  to  thank  you  for  what  ap 
peared  in  your  paper  about  Mr.  Gibson,"  she 
said.  "He  tells  me  that  it  was  the  best  account 
of  what  occurred  that  appeared  in  any  of  the 
papers." 

"I'm  sorry,"  John  confessed,  "but  it  hap 
pens  that  I  did  not  write  a  word  of  it." 

"Really?    I  thought — he  said  you  were  there 


"I  was,  but  you  must  remember  I'm  only  a 
cub.  I  couldn't  be  trusted  with  a  big  story  like 
that.  It  was  written  by  our  star  man. 

"Wasn't  it  wonderful?" 

"You  mean  what  Mr.  Gibson  did?" 


SPRING  STREET  119 

"Yes,"  before  he  realized  he  added,  "and  I 
have  an  idea  that  to  hear  you  say  so  means 
more  to  him  than  all  that  has  been  written." 

"He  has — been  kind  enough — to  say — some 
thing  like  that." 

Then  she  laughed. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  "he  wouldn't  care  very 
much  to  have  me  tell  you  such  things.  You 
wouldn't  believe  me  if  I  told  you  that  what  he 
said  didn't  please  me,  would  you?" 

"Well " 

"I  won't  insist  that  you  answer  that." 

"You  spoke  of  wishing  to  meet  mother?"  he 
ventured.  "You  were  so  kind  Sunday — could 
you — would  you — visit  us  at  home?  It's  not 
much  but — it's  home,  you  know." 

"I've  been  waiting  for  you  to  say  that,"  she 
replied.  "Make  it  whenever  you  wish.  I  do 
want  to  meet  your  mother." 

"Sunday — for  dinner?" 

"Yes." 

"At  three." 

"At  three,"  she  repeated. 

Mrs.  Gallant  rejoiced  with  him  that  evening 
over  the  increase  in  salary  P.  Q.  had  promised 
him.  She  had  learned  of  Consuello  from  the 
talks  they  had  each  evening,  when  John  re 
counted  to  her  the  events  of  the  day. 

"I'll  do  my  best  to  make  things  nice  for  her," 
Mrs.  Gallant  said  when  John  spoke  to  her  of 


120  SPRING  STREET 

having  invited  Consuello  for  dinner  Sunday. 
"It  is  so  good  of  her  to  wish  to  meet  me." 

"Mother,"  he  said,  taking  her  in  his  arms, 
"no  one  can  be  a  friend  of  mine  who  is  not  a 
friend  of  yours." 

"Not  even  Consuello?"  she  asked  him,  ban- 
teringly. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  CCLAMATION  of  Gibson's  frustration 
^  of  the  plot  of  "Red  Mike"  to  wreck  the 
uLark"  grew  in  volume  the  following  day. 
The  train  wrecker  hovered  between  life  and 
death  at  the  receiving  hospital  and,  during  his 
conscious  periods,  cursed  the  police  commis 
sioner  incessantly.  There  was  talk  of  Gibson 
as  a  recall  candidate  for  mayor,  but  he  met  it 
with  repeated  declarations  that  he  had  no 
political  ambitions. 

During  the  morning,  at  P.  Q.'s  order,  Bren- 
nan  and  John  with  reporters  from  the  other 
papers,  besieged  the  city  hall  seeking  an  inter 
view  with,  or  statement  from,  the  mayor  on 
Gibson's  demand  for  Chief  Sweeney's  re 
moval  and  the  situation  in  general. 

"Nothing  to  say  at  all,  boys,  nothing  at  all," 
the  mayor  said.  "If  I  have  anything  for  you 
I'll  call  you." 

Regardless  of  this  promise  the  reporters 
camped  in  the  ante-room  to  the  mayor's  office, 
listing  those  who  entered  for  conference  with 
the  city's  chief  executive  officer  and  speculating 
on  the  outcome  of  the  political  war.  It  was 
John's  first  sight  of  the  mayor  and  he  consid 
ered  him  a  rather  mild  little  man,  pleasant 
faced  and  of  an  attractive  although  somewhat 


122  SPRING  STREET 

easy-going  personality.  The  men  with  whom 
he  conferred  were  his  political  advisers,  most 
of  them  business  men  whose  names  were  famil 
iar  to  John  as  interested  in  civic  enterprise. 

While  the  other  reporters  were  busily  en 
gaged  in  conversation  John  saw  the  mayor's  sec 
retary  signal  with  a  nod  of  his  head  for  Bren- 
nan  to  step  into  another  room.  With  a  remark 
that  he  was  going  to  the  telephone  Brennan 
slipped  into  the  room  and  John  saw  the  sec 
retary  whisper  in  his  ear. 

At  one  o'clock,  an  interval  between  editions, 
the  other  reporters  went  out  for  lunch.  Bren 
nan  and  John  followed  them  into  the  corridor 
and  John  saw  Brennan  wink  to  him. 

"See  you  later,  boys,"  Brennan  said,  "got 
some  stuff  I  have  to  get  out." 

When  they  were  alone  Brennan  told  John  to 
follow  him  and  they  returned  to  the  mayor's 
office.  They  were  met  in  the  ante-room  by  the 
secretary,  who  ushered  them  into  the  room 
where  the  mayor  was  leaning  back  in  a  big  easy 
chair,  his  feet  crossed  and  perched  on  his  desk, 
and  blowing  thin  clouds  of  smoke  into  the  air 
from  a  slender  cigar. 

The  secretary  closed  the  door  behind  them 
and  John  heard  the  lock  click  shut.  The  mayor 
looked  at  them  without  changing  his  position. 

"Who's  your  friend?"  he  asked,  nodding  to 
John. 


SPRING  STREET  123 

"John  Gallant,  Mr.  Mayor,"  Brennan  said. 
"Gallant  is  helping  me  on  this  story.  You  can 
trust  him  as  much  as  you  trust  me." 

John  shook  hands  with  the  mayor. 

"As  you  say,  Brennan,"  he  said.  "I  suppose 
you  have  an  idea  why  I  sent  for  you." 

Brennan  nodded. 

"Whatever  we  say  here  now  isn't  for  publica 
tion,  you  understand,"  admonished  the  mayor. 

"Perfectly." 

The  mayor  puffed  at  his  cigar  and  gazed  up 
at  the  ceiling.  For  fully  a  minute  nothing  was 
said.  Then  he  jerked  his  feet  from  the  desk, 
sat  upright  in  the  chair  and  leaned  forward. 

"Brennan,"  he  said,  "am  I  a  fool?" 

John  almost  gasped  in  astonishment  at  the 
mayor's  question.  He  was  about  to  smile  when 
he  noticed  that  the  faded  blue  eyes  of  the  mild 
little  man  at  the  desk  were  glittering  with  any 
thing  but  an  amused  light. 

"I've  never  thought  so,"  said  Brennan. 

"Well,"  said  the  mayor,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair  again,  "everyone  I've  talked  with  here 
today  says  I  am  and  I  was  beginning  to  think 
they  might  be  right." 

"For  appointing  Gibson?"  asked  Brennan. 

"No,  for  thinking  what  Lcan't  help  thinking 
about  him,"  said  the  mayor,  rising  from  his 
chair  and  beginning  to  pace  back  and  forth 


124  SPRING  STREET 

across  the  room,  his  hands  thrust  into  his  pock 
ets,  the  cigar  clenched  between  his  teeth. 

They  waited  for  him  to  continue. 

"Brennan,"  he  said,  stopping  short  in  his 
striding,  "you  know  what  I  think  of  you. 
You've  helped  me  before  and  if  I'm  right  this 
time  you  can  help  me  again  and  land  the  big 
gest  story  you  ever  got  in  your  life.  If  I'm 
wrong,  then  I  am  a  fool  and  the  sooner  I  get 
out  of  office  the  better  it  will  be  for  me  and  the 
city." 

He  went  back  to  his  chair. 

"Do  you  know  what  I've  been  thinking?"  he 
asked. 

"That  Gibson  isn't  straight,"  said  Brennan. 

"Exactly,"  said  the  mayor.  "And  you  can 
guess  who  I  think  is  behind  him." 

"  'Gink'  Cummings,"  said  Brennan. 

"You're  right  again,"  the  mayor  thumped 
the  desk  with  his  fist.  "It's  the  'Gink,'  as  sure 
as  I'm  sitting  here.  That's  what  I  told  those 
who  were  here  to  see  me  today  and  everyone  of 
them  called  me  a  fool.  I  may  be,  but  I  have  a 
man-sized  hunch  that  I'm  not." 

"Gink"  Cummings,  boss  of  the  underworld, 
behind  Gibson?  Impossible.  It  was  nothing 
but  a  weak  attempt  at  retaliation,  John  thought. 
The  mayor's  advisers  were  right.  He  was  a 
fool !  Why  did  Brennan  sit  there  and  listen  to 
such  stuff? 


SPRING  STREET  125 

"Now,  get  me  right,"  continued  the  mayor. 
"I  have  nothing  except  a  hunch  that  Gibson  is 
backed  by  the  'Gink.'  I  haven't  the  slightest  bit 
of  real  evidence  to  form  a  basis  for  my  sus 
picion,  but  I  believe  I  can  see  a  pretty  deep 
game  in  this." 

"Go  ahead,  let's  see  if  you  figure  it  out  the 
way  I  do,"  said  Brennan. 

"All  right,"  said  the  mayor.  "In  the  first 
place,  the  'Gink'  has  been  against  me,  trying  to 
get  me  ever  since  I  took  office,  you  know  that?" 

Brennan  nodded. 

"He  tried  everything  he  could  think  of  and 
I've  beat  him  every  time.  He  knows  he  can't 
stay  in  Los  Angeles  unless  I'm  out  of  office. 
So  what's  he  to  do?  He  gets  a  man  like  Gib 
son,  starts  this  so-called  clean-up  campaign  to 
get  Gibson  political  power,  stages  or  directs 
this  'Lark'  wreck  business  and  figures  I'll  quit 
so  that  Gibson  can  slip  in  here  under  the  guise 
of  a  reformer,  but  really  a  figurehead,  a  pup 
pet,  to  appease  the  churches  and  other  organi 
zations  standing  for  a  clean  city  and  law  en 
forcement  while  the  'Gink'  bosses  things  from 
behind  the  scenes. 

"It's  been  done  before.  It's  an  old  trick  and 
it  works  almost  every  time.  Haven't  you 
noticed  that  Gibson  began  his  attack  as  soon  as 
I  appointed  him  commissioner  and  that  he  has 
never  said  a  word  about  the  'Gink'  whom  he 


126  SPRING  STREET 

knows  just  as  well  as  I  do  is  the  city's  worst 
enemy?  This  fellow  Gibson  is  only  a  mas- 
querader." 

"That's  the  way  I  figured  it  might  be,"  said 
Brennan,  as  the  mayor  paused,  "but  there  is 
one  obstacle.  How  did  the  'Gink'  ever  get  Gib 
son?  How  did  Gibson,  who  seems  to  have 
plenty  of  money  and  a  social  position,  ever  fall 
into  the  'Gink's'  hands?  What  was  his  mo 
tive?" 

The  mayor  smiled  for  the  first  time  since 
they  entered  the  room. 

"Ah,  Brennan,  my  boy,  that's  exactly  what 
everyone  asks  me,"  he  said.  "But  I  haven't 
been  asleep.  When  Gibson  started  all  this 
business  I  got  busy  and  I  know  a  few  things 
that  help  a  lot.  There  seems  to  be  plenty  of 
reason  for  Gibson  to  be  working  for  the 
'Gink.'  " 

"How?"  asked  Brennan. 

"Well,"  continued  the  mayor,  "I'll  only  tell 
you  what  I  know  now.  Gibson  was  highly 
recommended  to  me  when  I  appointed  him;  you 
may  be  sure  the  'Gink'  was  that  careful.  But 
I  wasn't  the  only  one  who  was  tricked.  There 
were  others,  the  ones  who  recommended  him. 

"I've  been  digging  into  Gibson's  past  a  little 
and  I  find  that  about  three  years  ago,  at  the 
time  I  was  elected,  he  was  broke,  flat  broke. 
He  had  a  social  position  through  his  family. 


SPRING  STREET  127 

His  father  and  mother,  who  are  well  known  and 
well  respected  and  who  are  dead,  left  him  only 
a  little.  Three  years  ago  he  was  in  debt  and 
then,  suddenly,  from  some  mysterious  source, 
money  began  to  flow  into  his  hands.  I  don't 
know  where  it  comes  from,  but  he  has  it. 

uHe  paid  all  he  owed  and  began  building  up 
a  reputation  as  a  fine  young  fellow,  so  that  he 
now  has  the  esteem  of  men  and  women  and  or 
ganizations  that  count  for  much.  His  motive? 
Money!" 

"That's  a  long  shot,  Mr.  Mayor,"  said  Bren- 
nan,  "a  long,  long  shot." 

"I  know  it,"  said  the  mayor.  "That's  why 
I  called  you  in  here,  today." 

"That's  all  the  information  you  have  ?"  asked 
the  reporter. 

"That's  all  I  have,"  the  mayor  said.  "But 
it's  been  done  before  and  it  seems  to  me  that 
Gibson  isn't  so  smart  that  he  could  make  the 
moves  he  has  alone.  You  know  the  'Gink.' 
You  know  how  clever  he  is  and  how  painstak 
ing  and  patient  he  is  in  everything  he  does. 
What  do  you  say?" 

"It's  a  long  shot,  but  it's  worth  it,"  Brennan 
said.  "If  you're  going  through  with  it  you  can 
begin  by  sitting  tight,  keeping  Sweeney  in  office 
and  working  as  hard  as  you  can  to  get  evidence 
that  will  break  Gibson  and  the  'Gink' — if  they 
are  partners — once  and  for  all." 


128  SPRING  STREET 

The  mayor  rose  from  his  chair  and  began 
his  pacing  back  and  forth  again.  He  pushed 
out  his  short,  thin  legs  to  twice  the  length  of  his 
ordinary  stride.  He  tossed  the  stub  of  his  cigar 
over  his  shoulder  and  it  fell  at  John's  feet.  He 
snapped  his  teeth  on  the  end  of  a  fresh  cigar 
and  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets. 

He  crossed  over  to  a  window  looking  down 
on  Broadway  and  his  nervousness  disappeared 
as  he  gazed  into  the  throbbing  thoroughfare 
below  him.  From  where  he  was  sitting  John 
could  see  that  the  mayor  had  a  fond  look  in  his 
eyes  as  he  watched  the  roaring  traffic  of  the 
principal  street  of  the  great  city  that  had  hon 
ored  him  by  electing  him  to  its  highest  office. 

Finally  he  turned  and  came  slowly  back  to  his 
desk.  He  stood  erect  beside  it  and  John  saw  a 
look  of  determination  come  over  the  features 
he  had  considered  so  mild  and  pleasing. 

"By  God" — he  used  the  name  of  the  Crea 
tor  softly,  reverently,  as  if  he  were  invoking 
aid  from  the  Almighty — "Brennan,  I'll  do  it." 
*  *  #  *  * 

Sunday  morning  John  and  his  mother  pre 
pared  for  Consuello's  visit  to  their  modest  little 
bungalow  home.  There  was  little  that  he  could 
do  to  help,  as  Mrs.  Gallant  had  arranged  every 
thing  and  spent  most  of  the  time  in  the  kitchen 
preparing  the  dinner  which  he  saw  was  to  be 


SPRING  STREET  129 

one  of  the  repasts  his  father  had  so  often  termed 
a  "feast  fit  for  a  king." 

uMy  boy  is  truly  a  man  now,"  she  said  to 
him.  "Do  you  realize  that  this  is  the  first  time 
you  have  ever  invited  a  girl  to  your  home?" 

He  laughed  as  he  took  her  in  his  arms  to  pet 
her. 

"Mother,  dearest,"  he  said,  "I  know  what 
you  have  been  thinking,  but  you  are  wrong. 
Consuello  is  a  wonderful  girl  and  sometimes  I 
cannot  understand  why  she  has  been  so  kind  to 
me.  She  is  only  a  friend,  dearest,  and  you 
mustn't  think  that  your  boy  is  in  love  with  her 
or  that  she  is  in  love  with  him." 

Mrs.  Gallant  smiled  up  to  him. 

"You  think  a  lot  of  her,"  she  said. 

"I  do,"  he  admitted.  "She  has  been  so  very 
kind.  She  believes  I  am  helping  someone  she 
seems  really  to  care  for." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  understand,"  Mrs.  Gallant  said. 
"You  run  along  now  and  let  me  finish  what  I 
have  to  do." 

In  the  living  room  he  picked  up  the  volume 
of  "David  Copperfield"  he  had  been  reading 
through  for  the  first  time  since  his  father's 
death.  Musing  as  he  turned  the  pages  he 
thought  how  thankful  he  was  to  his  father  for 
having  made  reading  interesting  to  him.  He 
remembered  that  the  books  his  father  had  read 
to  him  and  had  given  him  to  read,  books  that 


130  SPRING  STREET 

crammed  the  small  bookcase  near  the  fireplace 
and  filled  every  shelf  and  table  in  the  room, 
were  the  very  best — Dickens,  Thackeray,  Wash 
ington  Irving,  Shakespeare,  Walter  Scott,  Ad- 
dison,  and  of  the  later  writers,  Kipling,  O. 
Henry,  Anatole  France,  Mark  Twain,  Barrie. 

"If  I  ever  have  a  boy  I  will  teach  him  to  read 
as  my  father  taught  me,"  he  said  to  himself. 

Consuello  arrived  a  few  minutes  before  three. 
He  saw  through  the  window  the  machine  in 
which  they  had  ridden  to  her  father's  ranch  the 
previous  Sunday  draw  up  to  the  curb  outside. 
He  watched  her  descend  from  the  tonneau, 
speak  to  the  chauffeur,  who  touched  his  cap,  and 
turn  toward  the  walk  leading  to  the  house.  She 
wore  the  same  dainty  white  dress  she  wore  each 
time  he  had  seen  her  and  a  white,  summery, 
wide-brimmed  hat. 

He  went  out  to  meet  her. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  "I'm  not  one  of  those 
who  believe  in  being  fashionably  late.  What 
a  pretty  little  place  you  have." 

His  mother  met  them  at  the  door.  She  had 
doffed  her  kitchen  apron  and  her  face  was 
slightly  flushed — from  the  heat  of  the  range,  he 
knew — as  she  smiled  at  Consuello  with  an  ex 
tended  hand. 

"Miss  Carrillo,  my  mother,"  John  said. 

"I'm   happy   to   meet  you,    Miss   Carrillo," 


SPRING  STREET  131 

Mrs.  Gallant  said.  "John  has  spoken  so  often 
to  me  of  you  that  I  really  feel  I  know  you." 

"I  have  been  so  anxious  to  meet  you — to 
know  you,"  Consuello  said.  "I,  too,  feel  I 
know  you  because  he  has  told  me  so  much 
about  you.  I  only  wish  I  had  been  thoughtful 
enough  to  have  had  you  with  us  last  Sunday. 
The  next  time  you  must  be  with  us." 

Consuello  was  unaffected,  John  thought,  in 
her  praise  of  his  mother's  dinner.  She  insisted 
upon  aiding  in  the  removal  of  plates  from  the 
table  and  for  the  most  part  her  conversation 
was  with  Mrs.  Gallant.  What  delicious  salad, 
she  must  have  the  dressing  recipe  if  Mrs.  Gal 
lant  would  be  so  kind  as  to  give  it  to  her.  She 
told  in  details  that  were  meaningless  to  John 
of  the  Spanish  dishes  her  mother  prepared,  of 
the  barbecue  feasts  of  the  old  days  she  re 
membered  as  a  child. 

He  could  see  that  his  mother  was  interested, 
pleased,  and  he  was  relieved  that  Consuello 
alleviated  the  awkwardness  imposed  by  the 
absence  of  someone  to  wait  upon  them.  He 
left  the  table  once  to  answer  a  ring  at  the  door 
and  found  Mrs.  Sprocket's  husband  there, 
coatless  and  collarless  as  usual. 

"Is  Maude  here?"  asked  Mrs.  Sprocket's 
husband,  trying  to  appear  as  though  he  was  not 
peering  past  John,  which  he  was. 


132  SPRING  STREET 

John  was  certain  that  Mrs.  Sprockett' s  hus 
band  knew  as  well  as  he  did  that  Mrs.  Sprock- 
ett  was  not  with  them.  He  had  more  than  a 
suspicion  that  Mr.  Sprockett,  having  seen  the 
automobile  bring  Consuello,  had  crossed  the 
street  out  of  pure  curiosity. 

"No,"  he  said,  shortly,  an  impulse  rising  in 
him  to  add,  "and  you  know  it." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Mrs.  Sprockett's 
husband,  humbly.  "She  didn't  say,  you  know — 
I  thought  she  might  have — the  baby " 

As  on  the  night  of  his  father's  death  John 
heard  the  Sprockett  infant,  who,  he  had  a  vague 
idea,  was  the  eleventh  or  twelfth,  wailing  some 
where  in  the  Sprockett  home. 

"No  trouble,"  he  said,  shutting  the  door  in 
the  other's  face. 

They  had  been  in  the  living  room  an  hour 
after  dinner  when  Mrs.  Gallant  rose. 

"You  must  excuse  me,  Miss  Carrillo,"  she 
said.  "There  is  a  neighborly  duty  I  must  attend 
to.  Please  remain  until  I  return;  it  won't  be 
long." 

John  was  rather  disappointed  that  his  mother 
should  leave  them,  but  he  understood  how  she 
was  constantly  being  required  for  one  reason 
or  another  by  the  neighbors.  Alone,  their  con 
versation  took  another  course. 

"And  as  things  are  now,  after  he  has  dem 
onstrated  his  courage  in  a  way  that  leaves  no 


SPRING  STREET  133 

doubt,  are  there  still  those  who  are  horrid 
enough  to  doubt  Mr.  Gibson?"  she  asked. 

He  was  bound  by  the  confidence  he  had  en 
tered  into  with  Brennan  not  to  reveal  any  part 
of  the  mayor's  view  of  Gibson  and  his  suspicion 
that  the  commissioner  was  the  tool  of  "Gink" 
Cummings.  The  mayor,  however,  had  publicly 
taken  his  stand  of  "sitting  tight,"  as  Brennan 
had  suggested,  and  had  flatly  refused  to  oust 
Chief  Sweeney. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "Their  doubt  seems 
to  have  been  made  even  stronger  by  what  he 
did  in  preventing  the  wreck  of  the  'Lark.'  ' 

Her  eyes  opened  in  astonishment. 

"How?"  she  asked.  "How  can  they  pos 
sibly  doubt  him  now?" 

He  explained  to  her  Brennan's  view  that  Gib 
son's  frustration  of  "Red  Mike's"  plot  was  a 
"grandstand  play,"  without  mentioning  Bren 
nan.  She  sat  silent  for  several  minutes  after  he 
had  concluded.  Then,  raising  her  head  and 
looking  directly  at  him,  she  said : 

"Because  we  are  friends  I  will  tell  you  why 
I  know  so  certainly  that  what  you  say  cannot 
be  true.  Mr.  Gibson  and  I  have  known  each 
other  since  our  school  days.  His  father  and 
mother  were  near  and  dear  to  my  father  and 
mother.  He  has  been  almost  like  a  brother 
to  me. 

"I   believe   I   know  him  for  what  he   is,   a 


134  SPRING  STREET 

gentleman.  I  don't  think  there  is  anything  of 
his  plans  in  this  crusade  that  he  has  not  told  me. 
He  is  kind  enough  to  feel  that  I  have  his  inter 
est  at  heart,  that  I  want  him  to  succeed,  for  his 
own  sake,  for  the  sake  of  his  family  and  his 
name. 

"He  has  no  other  motive  in  all  this  but  to  do 
what  he  has  pledged  himself  to  do — make  Los 
Angeles  a  better  place  to  live  in.  He  is  purely 
an  altruist.  When  he  has  accomplished  what 
he  has  set  out  to  do  he  will  retire  from  pub 
lic  life  altogether  with  the  satisfaction  of  know 
ing  he  has  stood  for  law  and  order  and  de 
cency,  that  he  has  done  something  for  the  city 
in  which  he  lives  and  which  he  loves.  That  will 
be  his  only  reward,  the  satisfaction  he  feels 
within  himself." 

She  paused,  her  eyes  downcast. 

"There  is  one  other  reward —  that  is,  he  says 
it  will  be  a  reward — that  he  tells  me  he  will 
claim  if  he  is  successful,"  she  said,  softly. 

He  knew  what  she  meant  and  he  wondered 
if  she  would  say  it. 

"There  is  a  girl  he  loves  and  who  believes 
she  loves  him,"  she  said. 

So,  perhaps,  Brennan  had  guessed  it  when 
he  speculated,  "Sometimes  it's  a  girl." 

"The  girl,  has  she — the  reward,  has  it  been 
promised  him?"  he  asked. 


SPRING  STREET  135 

He  saw  the  tinge  of  crimson  steal  into  her 
cheeks. 

"She — it  has,"  she  answered,  softly. 

"I  understand  now,"  he  said.  "I  know  now 
why  he  faced  death  the  way  he  did.  What  man 
would  not?" 

This  last  he  spoke  quietly,  as  if  to  himself. 

"Can  you  think  of  him  as  insincere,  as  faith 
less,  as  selfish,  as  greedy  for  power?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I've  told  you  things  that  are  sacred,"  she 
said.  "I  have  told  you  because  I  regard  you 
as  a  friend.  I  liked  you  from  the  moment  we 
met " 

"And  I  said  you  were  beautiful?"  he  inter 
rupted. 

She  smiled  back  to  him. 

"And  you  said  I  was  beautiful,"  she  repeated. 
"But  not  simply  because  you  said  it,  but  be 
cause  I  thought  you  meant  it." 

"I  often  wonder  how  I  had  courage  to  say 
that  to  you  and  to  tell  you  I  dreamed  of  meet 
ing  you  again,"  he  said.  "I  have  often  won 
dered  why  you  have  been  so  kind,  why  you  are 
interested  in  me  at  all.  At  first  I  thought  it  was 
only — only  what  you  might  call  pity  and  I  re 
sented  it." 

"Why  is  it  we  have  such  thoughts?"  she  said. 
"Why  must  we  always  impute  a  misconceived 
motive?" 


136  SPRING  STREET 

''Because  deceit  has  its  place  in  the  human 
heart,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  and,  strangely,  he 
thought  of  the  mayor's  regard  of  Gibson  as  a 
figurehead  of  hypocritical  virtue  who  sold  him 
self  for  money.  How  terrible  it  would  be  if 
that  were  true ! 

As  if  by  mutual  unspoken  assent  they  talked 
of  other  things,  of  books,  of  plays,  of  life,  until 
Mrs.  Gallant  returned,  apologizing  again  for 
her  absence.  A  few  minutes  later  the  automo 
bile  which  had  brought  Consuello  glided  up  to 
a  halt  in  front  of  the  house  and,  glancing  at  her 
wrist  watch,  she  arose. 

"I  must  be  going,"  she  said.  "It's  my  turn 
now  to  thank  you  for  a  wonderful  day,  Mrs. 
Gallant;  you  will  promise  to  meet  father  and 
mother,  won't  you?" 

"I  would  be  delighted,"  Mrs.  Gallant  said. 

They  escorted  her  to  the  waiting  automobile. 
John  imagined  he  saw  Mrs.  Sprockett  and  her 
husband  peering  out  of  the  window  of  the 
Sprockett  house  across  the  street. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  trust  that  Consuello  reposed  in  him 
when  she  told  him  of  her  promise  to  marry 
Gibson,  John  held  inviolable  to  the  extent  that 
he  did  not  mention  it  to  his  mother.  It 
strengthened  his  belief  that  Brennan  and  the 
mayor  were  in  error  in  their  suspicion  that  Gib 
son  was  linked  with  the  notorious  "Gink"  Cum- 
mings  and  that  his  clean-up  crusade  was  only 
aimed  to  overthrow  the  administration  and 
make  the  "Gink"  the  boss  of  the  city. 

Had  he  been  free  to  tell  the  mayor  and 
Brennan  that  Gibson  was  striving  to  accomplish 
his  crusade  with  the  principal  motive  of  win 
ning  the  girl  he  loved,  John  felt  that  the  sus 
picion  against  the  police  commissioner  would  be 
undermined.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to 
believe  that  Brennan  would  deliberately  lend 
himself  to  the  mayor's  plan  to  attack  Gibson 
unless  he  actually  believed  that  there  was  some 
reason  to  suspect  the  commissioner. 

There  were  but  few  developments  in  the  feud 
between  Gibson  and  the  mayor  during  the  week 
after  Consuello's  visit  to  the  Gallant  home. 
Sentiment  throughout  the  city  was  obviously  in 
favor  of  Gibson,  whose  sensational  capture  of 
"Red  Mike,"  averting,  as  it  did,  the  wreck  of 


138  SPRING  STREET 

the  "Lark,"  gave  him  a  strong  hold  upon  the 
public.  The  mayor's  refusal  to  remove  Chief 
Sweeney,  putting  him  on  record  as  opposing  the 
commissioner,  was  generally  considered  the  last 
defiant  move  of  a  man  cornered  and  doomed  to 
defeat. 

Later  in  the  week  John  was  upset  by  the  first 
dissension  that  had  ever  arisen  between  him 
and  his  mother.  They  were  on  the  porch  of 
their  home  in  the  evening  when  John  recalled 
that  he  had  overlooked  asking  Mrs.  Gallant 
her  opinion  of  Consuello.  As  this  recollec 
tion  came  into  his  mind,  it  also  occurred  to  him 
that  his  mother  had  never  volunteered  to  say 
anything  of  Consuello  after  her  visit  to  their 
home  the  previous  Sunday. 

"Mother,  dear,"  he  said,  "tell  me,  did  you 
like  Miss  Carrillo?" 

He  felt  that  the  question  was  almost  un 
necessary  and  asked  it  casually.  He  was  sur 
prised  when  she  hesitated  before  answering. 
Looking  up  to  her,  he  saw  a  hint  of  worry  in 
her  expression. 

"She  seemed  a  pleasant  girl,"  she  said  slowly. 

"Seemed?"  he  repeated,  incredulously. 
"Why,  mother,  you  speak  as  if  you  did  not  like 
her." 

"I'm  sure  I  would  like  her  if  I  understood," 
she  said,  her  eyes  upon  her  needle  and  crochet 
work. 


SPRING  STREET  139 

"Understood?"  he  gasped.  "Understood 
what?" 

"My  dear  boy,  please  do  not  become  irritated 
by  what  I  say,"  she  said,  lifting  her  head  to 
look  at  him.  "You  know  I  would  not  hurt  you 
for  anything  in  the  world." 

"I  know,  mother,  but  I  cannot  imagine " 

"I  know  you  can't,"  she  said  interrupting 
him.  "If  you  had  you  would  have  explained  it 
all  to  me  days  ago.  Come,  don't  let  us  quar 
rel.  I  may  be  foolish  to  have  thought  what  I 
have,  but  you  must  remember,  my  boy,  that  I 
am  a  mother  and — a  woman." 

"What  under  the  sun  has  come  into  your 
head  to  talk  like  this,  mother?"  he  asked. 

She  placed  her  needlework  in  her  lap  and 
reached  over  to  stroke  his  head. 

"Don't  be  cross  with  your  mother,  John," 
she  said.  "I'm  sure  it's  all  a  misunderstanding, 
something  you  can  clear  away  with  a  few  words, 
and  when  you  do  please  do  not  ever  hold  it 
against  me  for  having  had  such  thoughts. 

"You  know,  John,  things  have  changed 
greatly  since  I  was  a  girl,  but  I  cannot  help  my 
self  from  having  the  viewpoint  of  other  days." 

"What  is  it,  mother?  Tell  me,  what  is  it?" 
he  asked,  somewhat  impatiently. 

"You  won't  be  cross  and  hate  me?" 

"No." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you.     My  boy,  I  cannot  un- 


140  SPRING  STREET 

derstand  why  Miss  Carrillo  lives  in  the  city 
alone  and  away  from  her  parents." 

He  looked  at  her  in  amazement. 

"Mother,  surely  you  don't "  he  began. 

It  was  incomprehensible,  unbelievable.  If 
she  had  spoken  against  the  name  of  his  dead 
father  John  could  not  have  been  more  startled 
than  by  this  questioning  in  his  mother's  mind  of 
Consuello. 

"I  don't  think  anything,"  she  said,  again 
stroking  his  head.  "But,  between  you  and  me, 
John,  there  should  be  not  even  the  slightest 
misunderstanding.  That's  why  I  have  spoken 
to  you  like  this.  Probably,  if  she  has  not  told 
you,  you  never  thought  to  ask  yourself  that 
question.  Perhaps  I  should  not  ask  it,  even  to 
myself,  but  I  am  a  mother  and  a  woman  and 
it's  natural  for  us  to  doubt  when  it  concerns  one 
we  love." 

"You  have  no  right  to  misjudge,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  misjudge,  my  boy;  I  only  wait  for 
your  answer." 

It  flashed  into  his  mind  that  he  could  not  an 
swer,  could  not  tell  her  why  Consuello  lived  in 
the  city,  but  it  did  not  cause  him  to  waver. 
Consuello's  words,  "Why  must  we  always  im 
pute  a  misconceived  motive?"  the  question  she 
had  asked  when  they  had  discussed  those  who 
doubted  Gibson's  sincerity,  and  his  answer,  "Be 
cause  deceit  has  its  place  in  the  human  heart,  I 


SPRING  STREET  141 

suppose,"  came  back  to  him.  He  could  not, 
however,  imagine  deceit  in  his  mother's  heart, 
and  he  knew  that  the  seed  of  suspicion  in  her 
mind  had  been  cultivated  into  an  ugly  weed  of 
doubt  by  some  one  else.  This  thought  calmed 
the  indignation  which  was  surging  through 
him. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "I  do  not  know  why  she 
lives  alone  in  the  city.  She  has  never  told  me 
and  I  have  never  asked.  I  did  not  consider  it 
my  business.  Not  for  a  moment  has  a  shadow 
of  doubt  entered  my  head.  Can't  you  see — 
can't  you  tell  by  looking  at  her? 

"She  may  be  with  friends.  She  may  be  study 
ing.  She  may  be  working.  Whatever  she  is 
doing,  you  nor  I  have  no  reason  to  let  an  evil 
thought  about  her  stay  with  us  for  a  moment." 

For  several  minutes  they  said  nothing.  Then 
Mrs.  Gallant  broke  the  silence. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  "was  that  Miss  Car- 
rillo's  automobile  that  brought  her  here,  Sun 
day?" 

"Oh,   mother!"   he  exclaimed,   exasperated. 

"I'm  sorry,  John.  I  only  thought  you  might 
tell  me." 

"I  don't  know  and  I  don't  care,"  he  said, 
coming  to  his  feet.  "Mother,  this  is  all  fool 
ishness — rank  foolishness.  Here  you  and  I 
sit  quarreling  over  things  that  are  none  of  our 
business.  I  never  thought  it  of  you.  I  never 


142  SPRING  STREET 

thought  you  could  think  such  things,  let  alone 
breathe  a  word  about  them.  I  never " 

"John,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Gallant,  pleadingly, 
"don't,  don't!" 

UI  can't  believe  it's  you,"  he  said,  angrily. 
"Some  one  has  been  putting  these  infernal 
thoughts  into  your  head — some  gossiping, 
scandal-loving,  evil-thinking " 

"My  boy!" 

He  stopped  and  the  anger  that  had  surged 
so  swiftly  slowly  left  him — left  him  ashamed 
that  he  had  given  way  to  his  temper,  ashamed 
that  he  had  spoken  so  sharply  to  the  one  he 
loved  more  than  any  one  in  the  world,  and  who, 
he  knew,  loved  him  as  no  one  else  would  ever 
love  him. 

Her  head  was  bowed  in  her  hand,  her  arm 
resting  on  the  side  of  her  chair.  He  went  to 
her  and  dropped  on  his  knees  at  her  feet. 

"Mother,  dearest,"  he  said,  softly,  "please, 
please  don't  cry.  I  was  a  brute.  I  shouldn't 
have  spoken  to  you  the  way  I  did,  but  I  was 
angry.  Please,  no  misunderstanding  must  come 
between  us.  You  are  everything  in  the  world 
to  me,  mother,  and  I  trust  you,  believe  in  you." 

"I  only  wanted  to  know — for  your  sake," 
she  said. 

"I  know,  mother,  I  know.  That  is  what  you 
have  always  done — thought  of  me  first.  But, 


SPRING  STREET  143 

don't  you  see,  mother,  she  is  nothing  more  than 
a  friend  to  me.  And  she  has  been  kind,  so  very 
kind  and  good,  and  I  know  she  is  only  the  sweet, 
dear  girl  I  believe  her  to  be.  If  you  had  only 
been  with  us  when  we  went  to  her  home, 
mother.  If  you  only  knew  her  as  I  know  her, 
and  you're  going  to.  You're  going  to  know 
her  and  like  her." 

"Yes,  yes,  my  boy.  I  know  I  will.  But, 
John,  there  is  so  much  evil  in  this  world,  so 
much  that  we  cannot  understand,  so  many  dis 
appointments,  so  many  cruel  things,  so  much 
wickedness,  and  I  only  think  of  you,  my  boy — 
only  of  you.  I  could  not  bear  to  have  you  care 
for  some  one  and  then  be " 

"I  know,  mother,  dearest,  I  know,"  he  said, 
petting  her  hands.  "Now,  we'll  forget  all  about 
it,  won't  we?  You'll  not  let  doubt  come  into 
your  mind  again,  will  you?  Don't  be  over 
cautious  in  your  care  over  me,  mother.  And 
don't  think  I'm  in  love.  I  do  think  she  is  sweet 
and  kind  and  beautiful,  and  I  thought  you  would 
like  her  because  she  is — is — is  what  I  would 
call  an  'old-fashioned'  girl." 

"Old-fashioned  girls  are  scarce  these  days," 
said  Mrs.  Gallant.  "I  do  so  hope  she  is  all 
that  you  believe  her  to  be." 

"And  I  am  forgiven  for  the  things  I  said  in 
haste,  tonight?"  he  asked. 


144  SPRING  STREET 

She  kissed  his  forehead. 

"And  you'll  forgive  your  foolish  old  mother 
who  loves  her  boy  so?" 

She  rose  and  moved  toward  the  door. 

"You'll  be  coming  in  soon?"  she  asked. 

"In  a  little  while,  mother,"  he  said.  "It's 
such  a  wonderful  evening  I'm  going  to  enjoy  it 
for  a  few  minutes  more." 

Alone,  John  speculated  on  Consuello's  rea 
son  for  living  in  Los  Angeles  while  her  parents 
remained  at  home  on  the  ranch.  The  prob 
ability  that  she  worked  in  the  city  became 
stronger  in  his  mind  when  he  thought  of  how 
her  father  had  spoken  to  him  of  their  reduced 
circumstances,  the  fact  that  but  little  remained 
of  the  vast  estate  once  owned  by  the  Carrillo 
family.  He  was  reasonably  certain  that  the 
automobile  which  Consuello  told  him  was  placed 
at  her  disposal  by  a  "friend"  was  owned  by  Gib 
son,  and  that  the  long  friendship  between  the 
two  families,  combined  with  privilege  permitted 
by  their  engagement  to  be  married,  made  it 
possible  for  her  to  accept  such  accommodation. 

How  unlike  his  mother  it  had  been  for  her 
to  question  Consuello's  mode  of  living!  He 
excused  her  suspicion  for  two  reasons — first, 
that  the  doubt  had  been  put  into  her  mind  by 
some  one  else  and,  second,  because  her  great 
love  for  him  had  carried  her  too  far. 

The  mockingbird  that  had  warbled  on  the 


SPRING  STREET  145 

night  of  his  father's  death  began  its  song  in  a 
tree  near  by.  As  he  listened,  meditative,  he 
saw  Mrs.  Sprockett  glide  across  the  street  to 
the  Sprockett  house,  returning  from  one  of  her 
unceasing  visits  to  other  homes  than  her  own. 
His  instinctive  dislike  for  Mrs.  Sprockett 
caused  him  to  blame  her  for  creating  suspicion 

against  Consuello  in  his  mother's  mind. 

***** 

During  the  following  week  John  learned  the 
answer  to  his  mother's  question  of  why  Con 
suello  lived  in  Los  Angeles,  away  from  her 
parents,  the  inquiry  that  had  provoked  him  to 
anger  because  he  took  it  as  an  insinuation 
against  Consuello's  character. 

Consuello  called  him  one  morning  by  tele 
phone. 

"Have  you  an  hour  or  so  to  spare,  today?" 
she  asked. 

"It  all  depends "  he  began. 

"I  know  you  are  a  busy  man,"  she  said,  "but 
I  thought  you  would  like  to  see  something  in 
teresting.  It's  a  surprise  I  have  been  saving 
for  you." 

He  had  a  premonition  that  she  was  about  to 
give  him  the  answer  to  his  mother's  question. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked.  She  laughed  before 
she  replied: 

"Oh,  it  would  spoil  it  all  to  tell  you  now. 
Didn't  you  hear  me  say  it  was  a  surprise?  I 


146  SPRING  STREET 

want  you  to  come  out  to  an  address  I  will  give 
you  if  you  say  you  are  able  to  get  away  from 
your  office." 

"When?" 

"This  afternoon,  as  close  to  two  o'clock  as 
you  can  make  it." 

"May  I  call  you  in  a  few  minutes  and  give 
you  my  answer?"  he  asked.  "You  see,  I  must 
have  the  permission  of  my  city  editor  if  I 
leave  the  office  except  on  newspaper  business." 

"I'll  wait  for  your  answer,"  she  said. 

P.  Q.  gruffly  gave  him  permission  to  go  off 
duty  at  one  o'clock.  He  hurried  back  to  the 
telephone  and  told  her  that  he  would  be  able  to 
see  her.  She  gave  him  an  address  in  Holly 
wood. 

"You  will  be  stopped  at  the  door,"  she  told 
him,  "but  tell  whoever  stops  you  that  you  are 
the  gentleman  I  am  expecting  and  there  won't 
be  any  further  difficulty.  I'll  look  for  you  at 
two,  then." 

When  he  reached  the  address  she  gave  him, 
shortly  before  two  o'clock,  John's  first  feeling 
was  that  he  had  misunderstood  the  directions 
she  had  given  him.  Before  him,  inclosed  by  a 
high  fence  over  the  horizon  of  which  he  could 
see  the  tops  of  queer  structures,  stood  the  ram 
bling  studio  of  the  Peerless  Pictures,  Inc.,  one 
of  the  largest  motion  picture  producing  con 
cerns  in  the  capital  of  filmdom.  At  one  side  of 


SPRING  STREET  147 

a  large  open  gateway,  near  an  oddly  shaped 
sentry  box,  was  a  fat,  red-faced  man  tilted 
back  in  a  kitchen  chair. 

The  man  was  eyeing  him  as  he  approached 
the  gateway. 

"Hey,  just  a  minute,  son,  where  do  you  think 
you're  going?"  the  man  shouted,  turning  his 
head  to  glare  at  the  intruder. 

"Inside,"  John  said. 

"Well,  you  don't  say — Hey,  there,  just  a 
minute !"  this  last  as  John,  who  had  a  secret 
delight  in  baiting  officiousness,  continued  toward 
the  gateway. 

"Who  do  you  think  you  want  to  see  in  there  ?" 
demanded  the  guard. 

"I  don't  THINK  I  want  to  see  anyone; 
Miss  Carrillo  sent  for  me,"  said  John,  wonder 
ing  if  this  would  be  the  password  and  feeling  a 
thrill  go  up  his  backbone  at  the  thought  he 
might  be  at  the  wrong  place. 

"What's  your  name?" 

"Gallant— John  Gallant." 

"Why  didn't  you  say  so  in  the  first  place? 
What  do  you  think  I  am,  a  mind  reader?  The 
clairvoyants  are  all  east  of  Main  street,  son, 
all  east  of  Main  street.  Keep  right  on  going, 
you'll  find  her  on  stage  number  three." 

His  heels  crunched  into  the  finely-graveled 
driveway  as  he  walked  in  the  direction  pointed 
out  to  him  by  the  guard,  who  condescended  to 


148  SPRING  STREET 

leave  his  chair  for  the  purpose  of  guiding  him. 
He  passed  two  huge  barn-like  structures  and 
found  the  third  designated  in  large  white  let 
ters,  "Stage  No.  3."  A  superstructure  of 
black  cloth  and  laths  was  built  out  from  the 
doorway  at  right  angles  to  the  stage  building, 
a  precaution,  he  later  learned,  against  daylight. 

It  was  his  first  visit  to  a  motion  picture 
studio.  He  had  no  interest  in  pictures  or  the 
people  who  played  in  them.  His  father,  from 
whom  he  inherited  his  love  for  books  and  the 
better  class  of  spoken  drama,  had  always  re 
garded  motion  pictures  as  almost  a  profanation 
of  art.  Once  he  had  noticed  an  advertising 
poster  of  a  well  known  star  referred  to  as  a 
"man's  man,"  wearing  a  shirt  open  at  the  neck, 
sleeves  rolled  to  the  elbows,  riding  trousers  and 
shiny  leather  puttees,  endeavoring  desperately 
to  appear  like  a  combination  of  Sandow  and  a 
Northwest  Mounted  Police  officer.  He  had 
had  the  satisfaction  of  hurling  a  rock  to  mar 
the  "virile"  face  as  it  looked  down  defiantly  at 
him  from  the  billboard. 

He  had  always  imagined  that  all  motion  pic 
ture  scenes  were  photographed  in  the  open,  on 
roofless  stages,  and  the  idea  that  Southern 
California's  perpetual  sunlight  gave  the  best 
service  for  this  purpose  he  believed  to  be  the 
reason  that  Los  Angeles  was  the  principal  pro 
ducing  point  of  the  world.  It  surprised  him 


SPRING  STREET  149 

when  he  realized  that  the  barn-like  structures 
were  inclosed  stages. 

Was  Consuello  a  screen  player  or  had  she 
some  other  work  connected  with  the  production 
of  pictures,  designer,  scenario  writer,  director, 
art  expert?  Or  was  she  only  at  the  studio  as  a 
visitor,  inviting  him  to  be  with  her  because 
some  particular  star  was  playing  or  some  es 
pecially  interesting  scene  being  staged? 

Entering  the  cloth  and  lath  superstructure 
he  found  himself  in  pitch  darkness.  Unable  to 
see  his  hand  before  his  face  he  stopped  to  ac 
custom  his.  eyes  to  the  absence  of  any  light.  A 
voice  spoke  out  of  the  dark: 

"Do  you  wish  to  see  anyone?"  it  asked. 

"Miss  Carrillo,"  he  answered,  having  an  un 
canny  feeling  as  he  spoke  to  someone  he  could 
not  see  and  yet  whom  he  know  was  close  at 
hand. 

"Miss  Carrillo  is  on  the  set — was  she  expect 
ing  you?"  the  voice  asked. 

"She  told  me  to  be  here  and  to  mention  that 
she  was  expecting  me,"  he  said. 

"This  way,  then,  please." 

He  turned  in  the  direction  from  which  the 
voice  came  and  walked  slowly,  cautiously,  until 
his  feet  encountered  steps.  He  mounted  the 
steps  with  a  strange  feeling  that  he  was  about 
to  fall  on  his  face. 

Reaching  the  top  step  he  felt  himself  on  a 


150  SPRING  STREET 

level  floor.  Shafts  of  light,  escaping  from 
between  tall  objects  before  him,  invaded  the 
darkness.  A  stringed  orchestra  was  playing 
something  soft,  plaintively  sweet.  He  rec 
ognized  the  music  as  Schubert's  "Serenade." 
He  stumbled  over  a  sawhorse  and  his  guide 
turned  upon  him  with  a  quick  admonition  to  be 
more  careful.  Except  for  the  music  there  was 
not  a  sound. 

Turning  past  one  of  the  tall  dark  objects, 
which  he  afterward  discovered  were  painted 
canvas  scenery,  he  halted  at  a  signal  from  the 
man  who  was  leading  him  and  who  continued 
to  go  forward  on  tiptoes,  a  muffled  curse  escap 
ing  him  as  a  board  squeaked  under  foot.  John 
named  his  guide  "Mr.  John  J.  Silence'"  in  his 
mind. 

Before  him  two  arc  lamps  threw  a  bluish 
white  light  on  a  set  representing  the  interior  of 
a  finely  furnished  room.  Between  the  lamps 
were  two  cameras  which  were  being  cranked  by 
two  tall  young  men  in  khaki  trousers  and  leath 
er  puttees  who  wore  the  peaks  of  their  caps 
turned  backward  like  children  playing  "fire 
man."  Near  the  cameras  a  man  with  horn- 
rim  spectacles  sat  in  a  canvas  chair,  a  man 
uscript  in  his  hand.  Scattered  about  were  a 
dozen  men  and  women,  poised  tensely,  as  if 
they  were  afraid  to  move  a  muscle.  To 
the  left  was  the  orchestra,  a  violin,  'cello  and 


SPRING  STREET  151 

bass  viol.  Why,  thought  John,  do  bass  viol 
players  always  have  that  far-away,  woebegone 
look  on  their  faces  as  they  saw  at  their 
instruments? 

From  where  he  stood  it  was  impossible  for 
John  to  see  what  was  before  the  cameras.  He 
strained  his  eyes  in  a  vain  attempt  to  identify 
Consuello  as  among  those  standing  behind  the 
lamps.  He  saw  his  guide  speak  to  one  of  the 
figures — a  man — and  then  turn  to  signal  to  him 
violently  and  silently  to  approach,  pressing  his 
forefinger  to  his  lips  as  a  final  admonition  to 
be  quiet. 

uMr.  John  J.  Silence  bids  me  approach," 
John  said  to  himself. 

He  tiptoed  forward.  A  board  creaked  under 
his  foot.  It  could  not  have  had  more  effect  if  it 
had  been  a  pistol  shot.  Instantly  all  except  the 
cameramen  turned  on  him  quickly.  He 
imagined  little  arrows  darting  at  him  from 
their  eyes,  those  little  arrows  cartoonists  use 
to  illustrate  a  fixed  stare  by  one  of  their  sub 
jects.  Never  had  he  seen  such  a  look  of  min 
gled  pain  and  exasperation  as  crossed  the  face 
of  "John  J.  Silence."  He  stood  stock-still,  fear 
ful  that  if  he  made  another  sound  they  would 
pounce  upon  him  and  tear  him  limb  from  limb 
while  "John  J.  Silence,"  completely  overcome, 
writhed  in  agony  on  the  floor. 

By  carefully  testing  the  flooring  each  time 


152  .  SPRING  STREET 

before  he  put  his  full  weight  on  his  foot,  he 
managed  to  reach  a  point  behind  the  cameras 
without  having  that  battery  of  aggravated  eyes 
turned  upon  him  again.  Now  no  one  favored 
him  even  with  a  turn  of  the  head.  He  saw 
that  Consuello  was  not  in  the  group.  The  man 
in  the  canvas  chair  spoke,  softly,  appealingly. 

"Now,  Miss  Carrillo,  you  think  of  how 
happy  you  two  were  together — days  that  are 
never  to  be  again — he's  gone — gone  forever — 
that's  it — tears  come  up  in  your  eyes — he's 
(deep  voice)  gone,  (deeper  voice)  gone,  (very 
deep)  g-o-n-e." 

Risking  those  reprimanding  eyes  again,  John 
stepped  to  one  side  to  enable  himself  to  see 
around  the  man  who  was  in  front  of  him,  block 
ing  his  view  of  the  set. 

He  saw  Consuello,  a  strange,  sad  Consuello, 
her  face  ghastly  pale  under  the  bluish  white 
light,  her  naturally  beautiful  features  hidden 
under  a  mask  of  paint  and  powder,  but  Consu 
ello,  just  the  same.  Heavy  tears  that  brimmed 
from  her  eyelids  coursed  down  her  cheek, 
sparkling  in  the  glare  of  the  lamps.  Her 
thickly  rouged  lips  trembled;  the  fingers  of  one 
of  her  hands,  pressed  tightly  in  her  lap,  beat 
wildly  on  the  back  of  the  other  beneath  it. 

She  was  seated  in  a  large  plush  chair  facing 
the  cameras.  She  wore  an  evening  gown  and 


SPRING  STREET  153 

her  hair  was  arranged  in  a  high  coiffure  that 

made  her  look  taller,  older. 

,     "Cut!"  commanded  the  man  in  the  horn-rim 

glasses.     "That  was  splendid,   Miss  Carrillo, 

splendid." 

The  cameras  stopped  grinding.  Consuello 
r  o  s  e — laughing.  The  orchestra  stopped 
abruptly.  She  came  toward  them,  touching 
lightly  at  her  cheeks  with  a  tiny  handkerchief. 

"It  seems  a  shame  to  dry  such  perfectly  real 
tears,"  she  said. 

Then  she  saw  John  and  came  to  him,  her 
hand  outstretched.  As  if  they  were  controlled 
by  a  single  mind  and  impulse  the  heads  of  every 
one  in  the  group  turned  to  him. 

"I'm  so  glad  you  got  here,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  X 

CO  THAT  was  your  surprise  for  me,"  he 
^  said,  taking  her  hand. 

She  smiled,  a  strange  and,  to  him,  an  unnat 
ural  smile,  made  so  by  the  rouged  lips  and 
painted  face.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  sound 
of  her  voice  he  would  have  doubted  if  the  girl 
before  him,  still  holding  his  hand  while  the 
others  scrutinized  him,  was  Consuello. 

"Speak,  or  I  won't  know  it's  you,"  he  said. 

"Were  you  really  surprised?"  she  asked. 

"Beyond  words,"  he  assured  her. 

She  turned  to  the  man  with  the  horn-rim 
spectacles. 

"That  is  all?"  she  inquired. 

"All  for  today,  Miss  Carrillo,  thank  you," 
she  was  answered.  "Tomorrow  at  2,  same 
costume,  but  on  the  other  set." 

"Come,"  she  said,  turning  to  John.  "We'll 
have  tea  and  a  talk  as  soon  as  I  return  to — to 
normalcy — that  was  Mr.  Harding's  way  of  ex 
pressing  it,  wasn't  it?" 

She  led  the  way  across  the  floor,  along  a 
twisting  and  turning  path,  through  furniture, 
furnishings  and  an  accumulation  of  "props"  to 
the  door.  As  they  stepped  out  into  the  day 
light  again  her  face  was  more  unlike  the  face 


SPRING  STREET  155 

of  the  Consuello  John  knew  than  it  had  been 
in  the  half  gloom  inside. 

They  crossed  a  narrow  asphalt-paved  road 
to  a  long  two-story  building. 

"I  won't  be  long,"  she  said,  opening  the  door 
to  the  section  in  which  her  dressing  room  was 
located.  "When  I'm  ready  the  maid  will  call 
you.  Will  you  wait  here?" 

"Don't  hurry,"  he  said.  "I'll  be  right  here 
where  you  left  me." 

While  he  was  waiting  "John  J.  Silence" 
emerged  from  the  door  of  the  stage  building. 
John  frowned,  pressed  his  forefinger  to  his  lips 
in  the  signal  for  silence  that  he  had  received 
inside.  "John  J.  Silence,"  grinning,  tiptoed 
away  with  ludicrous  gestures. 

In  twenty  minutes  the  maid  called  John  to 
the  door,  holding  it  open  for  him  as  he  en 
tered. 

"This  way,  please,"  she  said,  taking  the  lead. 

A  dozen  steps  brought  them  to  a  door 
marked  with  Consuello's  name.  John  paused  at 
the  threshold  while  the  maid  entered,  return 
ing  in  a  moment  to  hold  the  door  open  for  him 
again.  As  he  stepped  inside  she  went  out  into 
the  corridor,  closing  the  door  after  her. 

John  found  himself  in  a  tiny  room  with 
brightly  designed  wallpaper,  matted  rugs,  a 
wicker  chaise  longue,  wicker  glass-topped  table, 
wicker  tea  wagon  and  wicker  chairs,  all  dec- 


156  SPRING  STREET 

orated  in  a  gay  colored  chintz.  The  heavy 
curtains  at  one  side  of  the  room  parted,  and 
Consuello — the  real  Consuello  again — stood 
before  him  attired  in  a  tailored  suit  gorgeous  in 
its  simplicity,  setting  off  a  dainty  real  biche  lace 
and  batiste  blouse. 

"Well?"  she  said,  as  if  she  had  been  waiting 
for  him  to  speak. 

"I'll  say  it  again — you're  beautiful,"  he  said. 

The  same  half  credulous  look  that  she  had 
given  him  when  he  told  her  she  was  beautiful 
that  day  they  met  for  the  first  time  at  the  Bar 
ton  Randolph  lawn  fete  came  into  her  eyes. 

"I  did  not  mean  to  ask  you  that,"  she  said. 

"I  know,"  he  returned,  "but  you  are,  and  I 
couldn't  help  saying  so." 

She  took  a  chair  near  the  tea-table  and  he 
seated  himself  in  the  chair  that  was  opposite 
to  her. 

"I  meant,  what  do  you  think  of  me  now?" 
she  explained,  pouring  the  tea  into  absurdly 
small  cups,  one  of  which  she  handed  to  him. 

"It  was  a  surprise,"  he  said.  "I'll  confess  to 
you  now  that  you  puzzled  me.  I  could  not 
understand  why  you  were — well,  exiled  in  the 
city  during  the  week.  I  imagined  you  were 
either  with  friends  as  a  sort  of  a  permanent 
guest  or  studying." 

"You  never  thought  of  me  as  working?"  she 
asked. 


SPRING  STREET  157 

"Yes,"  he  admitted,  "I  have,  but  I  could  not 
picture  you  in  any  employment  I  could  think  of. 
It  was  impossible  to  think  of  you  as  a  stenog 
rapher  or  a  school  teacher  or  a  nurse  or  a 
shop  girl." 

"All  because  you  met  me  at  a  lawn  fete — 
a  society  affair,"  she  concluded. 

"No.  All  because — well,  all  because  you 
are  you." 

Was  that  a  glint  of  pleasure  he  saw  for  the 
briefest  fraction  of  a  second  in  her  eyes? 

"I  asked  you  to  come  out  here  this  afternoon 
because  I  knew  that  you  would  find  it  out  some 
day,  probably  tomorrow  or  the  next  day,  or 
next  week,  and  I  wanted  you  to  know  that  I 
had  not  tried  to  keep  it  from  you,"  she  said. 
"I  want  you  to  know,  too,  from  me,  why  it  is 
I'm  here." 

She  paused  and  he  waited  for  her  to  continue. 

"I  entered  picture  work  because — well, 
frankly,  we — that  is,  father,  mother  and  I — are 
alone  in  the  world  and  poor,"  she  said.  "Really, 
honestly  poor.  The  last  that  we  could  afford 
to  spend  from  the  little  we  have  left  was  spent 
on  my  education.  Father  insisted. 

"Once,  and  it  was  not  so  many  years  ago,  our 
family  was  wealthy  like  other  California  fami 
lies  that  received  land  grants.  But  father — the 
dear  that  he  is — like  so  many  of  his  friends, 
thought  little  of  business  or  the  future  and 


158  SPRING  STREET 

slowly  our  land  was  sold  until  now  only  a  few 
acres  of  what  we  once  had  remain — only  the 
few  acres  of  the  home  you  visited. 

"Of  course,  I  was  fortunate.  My  family 
name  gave  me  entrance  anywhere  and  still 
does,  although  there  are  those  who  think  I 
have  desecrated  that  name  and  who  feel  that 
because  we  are  in  reduced  circumstances  we 
have  simply  ceased  to  be. 

uSo  when  I  was  old  enough  to  realize  ex 
actly  what  conditions  were  and  what  we  faced 
I  was  determined  to  do  something.  It  was  a 
friend  who  was  kind  enough  to  believe  and  tell 
me  that  I  had  talent  for  acting  who  first  inter 
ested  me  in  motion  picture  work.  And,  not 
to  tire  you  with  long,  boresome  details,  I  was 
lucky.  Somehow  it  was  not  difficult  and  I  am 
now  receiving  enough  to  keep  us  comfortable 
without  encroaching,  as  I  said,  on  what  little 
father  has  left. 

"There,  you  have  my  story,"  she  concluded, 
settling  back  in  her  chair. 

"And  the  work,  do  you  like  it?"  he  asked. 

"I  do  like  it,"  she  replied.  "And,  besides, 
what  else  could  I  do?  You  have  said  yourself 
that  I  could  never  be  a  stenographer,  a  school 
teacher  or  a  nurse  or  a  shop  girl." 

"You  could  be  anything,"  he  hastened  to 
explain,  "from  a  shop  girl  to  a — to  a — a 
queen." 


SPRING  STREET  159 

"That's  better,"  she  concurred,  smiling. 

"Those  tears  you  shed  back  there  before  the 
camera,  who  were  they  for?" 

"For  the  man  I  loved — in  the  story,"  she 
explained.  "I  was  'emoting' — as  they  call  it — 
over  his  death.  The  inspiration  was  provided 
by  the  orchestra  you  heard  playing.  My  di 
rector  thinks  it's  wonderful  that  I  can  shed 
tears  whenever  he  asks  me  to.  He  says  it's 
a  relief  not  to  have  to  substitute  drops  of  gly 
cerine  or  hold  a  raw  onion  under  his  leading 
woman's  nose  to  bring  about  the  required  lach 
rymal  effect.  To  be  able  to  cry  easily  before 
the  camera,  he  says,  is  the  supreme  test,  be 
cause  to  shed  real  tears  you  must  have  imagi 
nation  and  imagination  is  everything." 

"And  how  do  you  do  it?" 

"There  are  plenty  of  causes  for  tears  in  life, 
far  too  many,  don't  you  think?"  she  said. 
"When  my  director  calls  for  tears  I  simply 
think  of  one  of  the  many — pictures  I  have  seen 
of  starving  children,  an  empty  stocking  at 
Christmas  time,  a  homeless  kitten,  an  orphan 
baby." 

"Don't  you  ever  think  of  the  story  and  cry 
because  you  are  carried  away  by  the  imagina 
tive  sorrow  of  the  death  of  the  man  you  love?" 

"No,"  she  said,  laughing.  "How  can  1? 
Most  of  the  time  I'm  really  glad — not  in  the 
story,  of  course — that  he's  out  of  the  picture. 


160  SPRING  STREET 

The  publicity  man  always  refers  to  me  as  a 
star  of  the  emotional  type  and  writes  yards 
upon  yards  of  stuff  about  how  I  actually  'live' 
the  part  I  am  playing.  My  imagination  doesn't 
carry  me  that  far,  though,  and  if  imagination 
is  everything,  as  my  director  says,  the  publicity 
man  should  be  the  greatest  actor  living." 

"I  don't  pay  much  attention  to  pictures,  but 
I  can't  remember  ever  having  seen  your  name 
or  photograph  in  the  advertisements,"  he  said. 

"Have  you  ever  noticed  the  name  of  Jean 
Hope?" 

"Often.". 

"That  is  the  name  I  took  when  I  had  ad 
vanced  far  enough  to  be  featured.  It  was  sug 
gested  to  me  by  the  publicity  man,  who  insisted 
upon  it  being  short  and  snappy,  as  he  said, 
something  that  would  be  easy  to  remember  and 
easy  to  put  into  type.  Of  course,  I  am  not 
obscured  to  my  friends,  who  all  know  that  1 
am  Jean  Hope.  Only  once  have  I  had  to  be 
positively  firm  with  the  publicity  man  and  that 
was  when  he  wanted  to  make  me  the  subject  of 
a  newspaper  story  that  society  girls,  as  he 
called  them,  were  intent  upon  becoming  motion 
picture  actresses.  That,  for  the  sake  of  my 
friends,  I  simply  had  to  refuse." 

"I  think,"  he  said  slowly,  "that  the  name 
your  father  calls  you  is  the  prettiest  of  them 
all." 


SPRING  STREET  161 

uMi  Primavera?" 

"Yes,  does  anyone  else  call  you  that?" 

"Only  father,"  she  said.  "That  is  his  pet 
name  for  me — 'My  Springtime.'  ' 

"You  know,"  he  said,  "the  story  you  told 
me  of  the  naming  of  Spring  street;  how  Ord, 
the  surveyor,  named  it  for  his  sweetheart, 
whom  he  called  'Mi  Primavera,'  is  incomplete. 
Tell  me,  if  you  know,  did  he  eventually  marry 
the  beautiful  Senorita  Trinidad  de  la  Guerra?" 

"I  have  often  wondered  that,  myself,"  she 
said.  "Whether  they  were  married  or  not — 
what  a  gallant,  romantic  thing  it  was  for  him 
to  do." 

"And  how  few  know  the  story!"  he  added. 

"What  dreams  he  must  have  had  for  the 
upbuilding  of  that  street  he  named  for  the  one 
he  loved,"  she  said.  "I  imagine  he  little 
thought  it  was  to  become  a  business  street,  that 
he  thought  of  it  always  as  lined  with  quaintly 
beautiful  Spanish  homes,  shaded  and  quiet, 
with  couples  strolling  along  it  at  twilight  and 
rest  and  contentment  everywhere." 

"That  was  his  dream,"  he  agreed.  "The 
dream  of  a  practical  man — a  surveyor  and  a 
soldier." 

"And  after  all,"  she  said,  "is  it  as  you  said 
once  that  it  is  only  in  books  and  plays  that 
dreams  come  true?" 

Her  chin  resting  in  her  hand,  she  gazed  out 


162  SPRING  STREET 

the  small  chintz  bordered  window  of  the  room, 
preoccupied.  He  noticed  the  daintiness  of  her 
profile,  the  placid  sweetness  of  her  face  in 
repose. 

The  silence  was  broken  by  a  rap  on  the  door 
that  startled  him. 

"Come  in,"  she  called. 

The  door  opened  and  on  the  threshold  stood 
Gibson,  the  smile  he  had  meant  for  her  fading 
from  his  face. 

For  a  moment  he  paused,  his  hand  still  on 
the  knob  of  the  door,  as  if  he  hesitated  to 
disturb  them.  Then,  with  the  appearance  of 
putting  whatever  thoughts  he  might  have  had 
from  his  mind,  he  strode  in. 

"Well!"  he  exclaimed.  "This  is  a  surprise. 
How  are  you,  Gallant?  Haven't  seen  you 
since  the  night  we  had  our  little  engagement 
with  'Red  Mike,'  who,  I  have  just  been  told, 
will  recover." 

"I'm  so  glad  to  hear  that,"  said  Consuello. 

"And  so  was  I,"  Gibson  said.  "No,  no,  Gal 
lant,  stay  where  you  are.  I'll  sit  here." 

John  had  risen  to  offer  Gibson  the  chair  op 
posite  Consuello.  He  sought  a  way  of  reliev 
ing  the  embarrassment  he  for  one,  felt  when 
Gibson  made  his  unexpected  entrance. 

"Miss  Carrillo  has  revealed  herself  to  me 
as  Jean  Hope,"  he  explained.  "Until  this 


SPRING  STREET  163 

afternoon   I   had   no   idea    she    played   in  pic 


tures." 


Was  it  because  she  too,  felt  it  necessary  to 
make  some  explanation  that  she  said: 

"You  see,  I  realized  that  Mr.  Gallant  would 
eventually  learn  about  it  and  I  wanted  to  sur 
prise  him  myself." 

"I'm  proud  of  my  Consuello,"  Gibson  said, 
patting  her  hand  and  speaking  to  John.  "She 
is  famous — really,  truly  famous — far  more, 
I'm  afraid  than  you  or  I  will  ever  be,  Gallant. 
Still,  she  deserves  it,  and  we  don't — that  is,  I 
don't,  at  least.  She  is  so  famous  that  I  find 
it  difficult  to  keep  myself  from  becoming  jeal 
ous  of  her." 

"Jealous  of  my  good  luck?"  she  asked,  smil 
ing. 

"No,  no;  jealous  of  the  admiration  that  is 
showered  upon  you  and  those  who  give  it.  You 
can  understand  why,  can't  you,  Gallant?" 

While  Gibson  seemed  absolutely  frank  and 
to  have  put  the  question  only  incidentally,  John 
had  a  feeling  that  it  was  something  more  than 
a  mere  interrogation.  He  scanned  Gibson's 
face  for  a  trace  of  a  betrayal  of  his  purpose  in 
putting  the  question  to  him. 

"Easily,"  he  replied. 

"You  are  both  more  than  kind  to  me,"  Con 
suello  said.  "Come,  now  that  we  three  are 


164  SPRING  STREET 

together,  let's  talk  of  what  you're  doing,  Reg 
gie.  It's  far  more  interesting.  I'll  call  for  a 
fresh  pot  of  tea." 

She  pressed  a  button  in  the  wall  and  a  maid 
responded. 

''There's  little  more  that  is  new,"  Gibson 
said.  "The  mayor  is  still  standing  pat,  al 
though  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  he  is 
feeling  the  pressure  brought  on  him  by  those 
that  are  supporting  me,  because  he  refuses  to 
remove  Chief  Sweeney.  Most  of  the  men  who 
are  his  advisers  are  dropping  away  from  him. 
His  policy  in  the  face  of  my  attack  apparently 
dissatisfies  them.  I  am  waiting  for  one  of 
them  to  swing  over  to  my  side  and  tell  exactly 
what  his  position  is." 

John  remembered  the  interview  Brennan 
and  he  had  had  with  the  mayor,  and  in  his 
mind,  as  vivid  as  it  was  when  it  occurred,  he 
saw  the  mayor  solemnly  pledge  himself  to 
seek  to  establish  what  he  suspected — that  Gib 
son  was  in  league  with  "Gink"  Cummings. 

"What  will  be  your  next  move?"  he  asked. 

"I  have  promised  to  clean  up  Los  Angeles 
and  I  mean  to  go  through  with  it,"  Gibson  re 
plied.  "With  the  mayor  taking  the  position 
he  has,  it's  plainly  up  to  me  to  carry  on  de 
spite  his  opposition.  I'll  go  ahead  with  my 
plans  to  drive  gamblers,  crooks,  bandits  and 


SPRING  STREET  165 

women  of  the  underworld  from  the  city  and 
in  doing  so  the  people  will  be  convinced  that 
I  am  in  the  right  and  blame  the  mayor  for  his 
obstinacy  in  refusing  to  work  with  me. 

"The  big  difficulty  will  be  to  get  men  to 
assist  me.  I  have  the  private  detectives  I  have 
employed,  but  I  doubt  if  I  can  use  them  in 
making  raids.  Of  course,  Sweeney  will  see 
that  I  don't  get  any  police  officers  to  carry  out 
my  orders,  which  leaves  only  the  district  at 
torney  and  the  sheriff  from  whom  I  can  ask 
assistance.  I  have  been  informed  that  the 
sheriff  is  ready  and  willing  to  place  a  number 
of  his  deputies  at  my  command  and  they  will 
probably  be  the  officers  who  will  carry  out  my 
orders. 

"The  fact  that  I  am  compelled  to  use  deputy 
sheriffs,  who  are  county  and  not  city  employes, 
in  my  crusade  will  have  its  effect,  demonstrat 
ing  conclusively  that  the  mayor  does  not  intend 
to  assist  me  in  any  way  in  doing  what  is  his 
duty  to  keep  Los  Angeles  clean." 

"Surely,  you're  not  going  to  take  your  life 
in  your  hands  again?"  asked  Consuello.  John 
perceived  that  she  was  sincerely  concerned  for 
Gibson's  safety. 

"My  dear  Conny,"  he  said  patting  her  shoul 
der,  "the  danger  will  be  slight.  I  can't  expect 
to  have  things  done  and  only  sit  back  in  my 
office  letting  others  do  it." 


166  SPRING  STREET 

"But  promise  me  that  you  will  not  take  any 
needless  chances,"  she  pleaded. 

"You  have  my  promise,"  he  said.  Then, 
turning  to  John,  he  added:  "You  see,  Gallant, 
how  it  is.  If  I  ever  turn  and  run  away  from 
danger,  you  will  know  I  am  only  keeping  a 
promise." 

"I  don't  believe  there  is  any  one  who  ques 
tions  your  courage,"  John  said. 

"It's  good  of  you  to  say  that,  Gallant,"  Gib 
son  acknowledged.  "Now,  suppose  we  hear 
what  you  have  to  say.  Tell  us,  what  are  you 
newspaper  men  saying  about  this  rumpus  be 
tween  the  mayor  and  me?  What  do  you  think 
of  what  I'm  doing?  Have  you  any  sugges 
tions?" 

John  hesitated  before  answering.  What  he 
had  heard  the  mayor  say  to  Brennan  was  con 
fidential.  Even  had  he  been  at  liberty  to  tell 
it  he  doubted  if  he  would  have  disclosed  it, 
for  Consuello's  sake. 

"There  is  one  thing  upon  which  the  re 
porters  are  speculating,"  he  said. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Gibson. 

"They  are  wondering  when  you  will  launch 
your  attack  in  a  new  direction." 

"How?" 

"By  hitting  at  'Gink'  Cummings."  As  John 
mentioned  the  "Gink's"  name  he  watched 
Gibson's  face  closely  to  discover  the  effect  it 


SPRING  STREET  167 

had  upon  the  commissioner.  He  thought  af 
terward  that  Gibson  had  expected  him  to  refer 
to  Cummings  and  that  he  had  been,  if  any 
thing,  a  trifle  too  well  prepared  to  answer. 

"I  thought  so,"  Gibson  said.  "Well,  let  me 
tell  you  something,  Gallant.  I'll  make  things 
hot  for  the  'Gink'  mighty  soon.  But,  you 
must  remember,  the  'Gink'  is  only  the  effect 
and  not  the  cause  of  the  trouble.  The  cause 
is  the  failure  of  the  mayor  and  Sweeney  to 
keep  the  lid  down  in  Los  Angeles.  Cummings 
is  only  powerful  through  the  weakness  of  the 
mayor  and  the  chief.  If  they  were  on  the  job, 
Los  Angeles  wouldn't  be  big  enough  for  such 
a  man  as  'Gink'  Cummings." 

"Why  don't  you  come  out  and  say  so?"  John 
asked,  feeling  reassured,  however,  by  Gibson's 
announcement  that  the  "Gink"  was  not  to  be 
overlooked. 

"It's  another  case  of  where  'actions  speak 
louder  than  words,'  "  the  police  commissioner 
said.  "Cummings  isn't  afraid  of  what  someone 
says  is  going  to  happen  to  him.  He's  a  veteran. 
He's  heard  that  kind  of  talk  before.  So  have 
the  people  of  Los  Angeles.  What  he  is  afraid 
of  and  what  the  people  of  the  city  want  is — 
action." 

"And  who  is  this  man,  'Gink'  Cummings?" 
put  in  Consuello,  who  had  been  listening  in 
tently  to  the  conversation  between  the  two  men. 


168  SPRING  STREET 

"  'Gink'  Cummings,  my  dear,"  said  Gibson, 
uis  the  boss  of  the  element  I  hope  to  drive  out 
of  Los  Angeles.  He  rules  like  a  king  over 
burglars,  gamblers,  pickpockets,  bandits,  swin 
dlers  and  crooks  of  every  description." 

John  took  advantage  of  an  opportunity. 

"It's  true,  is  it  not,  that  the  mayor  and  Cum 
mings  are  enemies?" 

"Yes,  that's  true,  but  they're  political  ene 
mies,"  Gibson  said.  "The  trouble  is,  how 
ever,  that  the  mayor  is  afraid  of  Cummings. 
And  so  is  Sweeney.  They  don't  seem  to  have 
the  courage  to  go  after  him." 

"Why  don't  they  take  this  'Gink'  person  and 
put  him  in  the  penitentiary?"  asked  Consuello. 

Gibson  laughed. 

"That  appears  to  be  an  impossibility,"  he 
said.  "They  have  tried  it  time  and  again,  but 
each  time  he  was  too  clever  for  them." 

"Of  course,"  smiled  Consuello.  "It  was 
silly  of  me  to  have  asked  such  a  question.  I 
confess  I'm  a  perfect  ignoramus  about  such 
things." 

A  few  minutes  later  they  left  the  studio, 
Gibson  offering  to  convey  John  to  his  home 
in  his  automobile. 

"As  often  as  I  can  I  call  for  Consuello  and 
take  her  to  her  home,"  he  explained.  "We 
are  both  so  busy  these  days  we  have  little 
other  time  in  which  to  see  each  other.  I'm 


SPRING  STREET  169 

glad  I  saw  you  this  afternoon,  Gallant,  and 
you  may  want  to  know  that  it  won't  be  long 
before  I'll  have  some  more  real  news  for  you." 

As  the  automobile  carried  them  toward  his 
home,  John  thanked  Consuello  again  for  hav 
ing  invited  him  to  the  studio. 

"I  don't  believe  I  would  have  discovered 
that  you  are  Jean  Hope  for  a  long  time,"  he 
said.  "From  now  on  I'll  never  miss  one  of 
your  pictures." 

"I  have  yet  to  view  with  complacency  the 
scenes  in  which  she  is  in  the  arms  of  another 
man,"  laughed  Gibson. 

After  dinner  that  night  he  led  his  mother 
to  the  porch,  telling  her  he  had  news  for  her. 
He  was  glad  that  he  was  able  to  answer  her 
questions  concerning  Consuello,  although  he 
believed  the  unpleasant  occurrence  of  a  few 
nights  before  was  completely  a  thing  of  the 
past,  to  be  forgotten. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  smiling,  "I  discovered 
today  what  keeps  Miss  Carrillo  in  the  city  dur 
ing  the  week." 

Mrs.  Gallant  regarded  him  expectantly. 

"You  did?" 

"Yes,  she  is  working." 

Mrs.  Gallant  smiled,  as  though  the  infor 
mation  given  her  by  her  son  relieved  a  hidden 
anxiety. 

"And  what  does  she  do?"  she  asked. 


170  SPRING  STREET 

"She  is  in  pictures,"  he  answered. 

The  smile  faded  from  Mrs.  Gallant's  face. 

"In  pictures!"  she  exclaimed.  "Then  she  is 
an " 

"An  actress,"  he  supplied.  "She  invited  me 
out  to  her  studio  and  told  me  all  about  how  it 
was  while  we  had  tea  in  her  dressing  room. 
Why,  mother!  What's  the  matter?  Mother!" 

Mrs.  Gallant  had  risen  from  her  chair,  a 
strange,  disconsolate  expression  upon  her  face, 
and  had  gone  back  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  STONISHED  even  more  than  he  had 
/  ^  been  when  she  first  questioned  the  pro 
priety  of  Consuello's  living  alone  in  the  city, 
John  hurried  into  the  house  after  his  mother 
and  found  her  in  a  chair  beside  a  table  in  the 
living  room,  her  head  buried  in  her  arms. 

"Mother!"  he  exclaimed,  anxiously.  "What 
is  wrong?  Are  you  ill?  Don't,  mother,  don't 
cry.  Speak  to  me,  speak  to  me." 

She  did  not  answer.  He  stepped  forward 
quickly  and  lifted  her  face  between  his  hands, 
tenderly.  He  saw  that  her  eyes  were  filled 
with  tears. 

"Please,"  she  said,  drawing  back  her  head. 
He  dropped  his  arms  to  his  sides.  "Please,  I 
must  be  alone,"  she  said. 

"Tell  me,  tell  me,  what  is  it?"  he  begged. 

Rising  a  trifle  unsteadily  to  her  feet  she 
walked  past  him  to  the  door.  He  wheeled  as 
she  was  about  to  step  out  of  the  room  and 
caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"Mother,  dearest,"  he  pleaded,  "what  is  it? 
Is  it  because  you  do  not  approve?  Is  it  so 
terrible  that  she  must  work  to  live  and  that 
she  plays  in  pictures?  Surely,  you  can't  think 
wrong  of  her?" 


172  SPRING  STREET 

Slowly  she  nodded  her  head.  He  stepped 
back  in  amazement.  How  could  she  possibly 
think  such  things? 

"I  had  hoped,  because  she  was  a  friend  of 
yours,  that  she  would  be  what  you  thought 
her,"  Mrs.  Gallant  said,  tremulously. 

"Why,  mother,  what  are  you  talking 
about?"  he  gasped.  "She  is  my  friend  and 
there  is  nothing  to  make  me  think  that  she  is 
anything  but  what  I  believed  her  to  be,  a  dear, 
kind  friend." 

Mrs.  Gallant  clasped  her  hands  at  her  waist 
and  straightened  her  shoulders. 

"She  dared — dared  to  receive  you  alone  in 
her  dressing  room,"  she  said.  "John,  don't 
you  understand  what  that  means?  Don't  you 
know  how  wrong  it  was?  Do  decent  girls  do 
such  things?  An  actress!  I've  heard  enough 
about  them.  An  actress  who  allows  herself  to 
be  kissed  and  held  in  men's  arms!  An  asso 
ciate  of — " 

He  raised  his  hand  quickly. 

"Mother!"  he  expostulated,  "you  can't  say 
that.  You  can't,  you  can't." 

For  a  moment  they  stood  facing  each  other 
and  an  expression  of  despair  crossed  her  fea 
tures  as  she  whirled  around  and  left  the  room. 
John  stood  stunned  until  he  heard  the  door 
of  her  bedroom  close.  With  a  heavy  sigh  he 
threw  himself  into  a  chair  and  bowed  his  head 


SPRING  STREET  173 

in  his  hands,  staring  distractedly  at  the  design 
in  the  rug  under  his  feet. 

Until  far  into  the  night  he  sat  there,  think 
ing,  thinking,  thinking.  Mingled  exasperation 
and  perplexity  racked  his  brain  and  finally  he 
attempted  to  collect  his  thoughts  and  reason  it 
all  out.  It  was  ridiculous,  he  thought,  and  yet 
so  serious.  Gradually  he  came  to  study  the 
entire  situation  from  the  viewpoint  of  his 
mother  and  by  doing  so  he  came  to  a  solution 
of  the  difficulty.  His  heart  softened  toward 
her  and  he  found  an  excuse  for  her  antipathy 
for  Consuello. 

Primarily,  he  understood  his  mother's  great 
love  for  him,  her  desire  to  protect  him,  guard 
his  happiness  and  assure  his  success  in  life 
was  the  cause  for  the  unreasonable  attitude  she 
had  taken  toward  the  girl  who  had  been  so 
kind  to  him.  Perhaps  his  mother  still  clung 
to  her  hastily-formed  idea  that  he  was  in  love 
and  that  his  ''undisciplined  heart" — the  de 
scriptive  words  were  fresh  in  his  mind  from 
his  reading  again  of  "David  Copperfield" — 
would  lead  him  into  trouble. 

And  then  he  easily  comprehended  her  aver 
sion  to  motion  pictures  and  those  who  played 
in  them,  insupportable  by  facts  as  it  was.  The 
strict,  narrow  training  she  had  received  as  a 
girl  had  nurtured  in  her  an  abhorrence  of  pub 
lic  performers,  particularly  actors  and  ac- 


174  SPRING  STREET 

tresses,  whom  she  regarded  without  exception 
as  libertines.  This  misconception  had  been 
increased  by  the  scandalous  and  equally  slan 
derous  stories  that  had  reached  her  ears  con 
cerning  motion  pictures  and  the  life  led  by 
those  engaged  in  the  producing  of  photoplays 
in  Hollywood. 

The  faults  of  one  or  two  who  became  in 
volved  in  scandal  of  some  sort  she  gave  to  all. 
Because  a  motion  picture  actress,  as  human 
as  any  other  woman  and  as  liable  to  imperfec 
tion,  sought  a  divorce  in  the  courts  she  in 
stantly,  in  Mrs.  Gallant's  mind,  became  an  im 
moral  character.  A  motion  picture  actor  at 
tacked  by  a  blackmailer  because  of  his  wealth 
and  prominence,  was  adjudged  guilty  of  what 
ever  wrong  of  which  he  was  accused.  It  was 
an  unfair  and  unjust  attitude  common  to  thou 
sands  of  women  as  wholesome  in  character,  as 
kindly  and  merciful  in  disposition  and  as 
saintly  to  those  who  loved  them  and  were  loved 
by  them,  as  Mrs.  Gallant. 

In  his  unsuspecting  delight  in  being  able  to 
explain  to  his  mother  why  Consuello  lived 
apart  from  her  parents,  he  had  completely 
overlooked  her  foible  in  disliking  motion  pic 
ture  players  simply  because  they  were  mem 
bers  of  that  profession.  Likewise  he  had  for 
gotten  precaution  by  telling  her  that  Consuello 
had  received  him  in  her  dressing  room.  He 


SPRING  STREET  175 

had  been  unable  to  tell  her  that  Consuello,  al 
though  she  enjoyed  work  and  had  a  pride  in 
it,  had  entered  the  pictures  to  provide  for  her 
aging  parents.  The  confidence,  as  he  regarded 
it,  that  Consuello  had  placed  in  him  in  in 
forming  him  that  she  and  Gibson  were  engaged 
to  be  married,  he  could  not,  he  felt,  reveal. 

He  pondered  for  a  time  over  a  disconcerting 
thought  that  possibly  it  had  not  been  proper 
after  all,  for  Consuello  to  have  allowed  him 
to  see  her  in  her  dressing  room,  alone,  without 
having  previously  mentioned  to  Gibson  her  in 
tention  of  doing  such  a  thing.  It  had  been  ob 
vious  that  Gibson  was  genuinely  surprised 
when  he  found  John  with  her.  He  finally 
dismissed  any  apprehension  created  by  this 
thought  by  recalling  Consuello's  apparent 
guilelessness. 

He  fatigued  his  brain  in  a  vain  endeavor  to 
decide  upon  some  means  of  overcoming  his 
mother's  prejudice.  Setting  aside  the  fact 
that  he  wanted  them  to  be  friends,  to  know 
and  find  in  each  other  the  things  he  admired 
in  them,  the  principle  of  the  whole  affair  con 
cerned  him.  He  remembered  how  different 
his  father  had  been,  how  tolerant,  how  ready 
to  withhold  adverse  judgment  of  a  person  until 
both  sides  of  the  story  had  been  heard. 

Weary,  unhappy,  disconcerted,  he  went  to 
his  bedroom  and  puzzled  over  his  problem 


176  SPRING  STREET 

until  he  fell  asleep.  Mrs.  Gallant  had  com 
posed  herself,  somewhat  severely,  when  he  saw 
her  in  the  morning  at  breakfast.  There  was 
a  trace  of  haggardness  in  her  face  that  told 
him  she,  too,  had  spent  a  restless  night. 

uMother,  dear,"  he  said,  holding  her  in  his 
arms  before  he  left  for  work,  uyou  know  how 
much  I  love  you."  She  seemed  to  yield  a  little 
in  response  to  his  tenderness. 

"I  know,  my  boy,"  she  said,  "and  you  must 
realize  how  much  I  care  for  you." 

"Oh,  I  do,  I  do,"  he  said,  "you  have  always 
been  a  wonderful,  wonderful  mother  to  me. 
Remember,  nothing  must  come  between  us." 

Her  severe  aspect,  which,  he  knew,  she  as 
sumed  to  compose  herself,  disappeared  and 
the  love  that  she  bore  him  as  her  first  and  only 
son  shone  in  her  eyes  as  she  kissed  him  when 
he  left.  It  was  like  the  kisses  she  had  given 
him  when  he  was  a  grammar  school  boy. 

Later  in  the  day  John  met  an  old  friend 
whom  he  had  almost  forgotten.  It  was  the 
scrawny  youth  with  the  twisted  nose  and  the 
husky  voice  who  had  been  a  second  in  his 
corner  the  night  he  fought  Battling  Rodriguez 
to  get  money  to  pay  for  his  father's  funeral. 
He  remembered  the  youth  as  Murphy  when 
he  met  him  lounging  at  the  counter  of  a  cigar 
stand  at  the  entrance  to  one  of  Spring  street's 


SPRING  STREET  177 

most  celebrated  saloons,  which  now  was  con 
verted  into  a  soft  drink  and  lunch  establish 
ment  and  which  was  frequented  by  men  who 
loitered  in  and  around  it  for  the  associations 
it  held  for  them  and  the  memory  of  other 
days. 

Murphy,  a  brown  paper  cigaret  drooping 
from  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  hailed  him  as 
he  passed. 

"If  it  ain't  da  Gallant  kid!"  he  said,  speak 
ing  from  beneath  the  visor  of  his  cloth 
cap,  pulled  tightly  around  his  ears.  They 
shook  hands. 

"Hello,  Murphy,  what  have  you  been  doing 
since  the  night  that  Mexican  nearly  killed 
me?"  asked  John,  feeling  somehow  that  he 
owed  the  second  something  for  the  care 
he  had  taken  of  him  after  he  had  staggered 
from  the  ring,  bruised  and  battered. 

"Oh,  da  same  old  stuff,  da  same  old  stuff," 
Murphy  replied.  "Haven't  been  doin'  any 
more  fightin',  have  ya?" 

"No,"  said  John,  with  a  laugh,  "the  beat 
ing  the  Battler  gave  me  was  enough.  You 
know,  it's  a  good  man  who  knows  when  he 
has  had  enough." 

"Ya  didn't  seem  to  know  when  ya  had 
enough  da  night  ya  mixed  it  with  da  Battler," 
said  Murphy.  "Ya  took  a  beltin1  that  night 
and  came  up  for  more  as  long  as  ya  could," 


178  SPRING  STREET 

"Let's  step  inside;  I'll  buy  you  a  drink  of 
whatever  they  have,"  John  invited. 

Over  steins  of  near-beer  which  Murphy 
drank  with  a  wry  face  John  learned  that 
Battling  Rodriguez  had  fought  himself  to  the 
top  and  was  now  boxing  main  events  at 
Vernon,  at  the  American  Legion  stadium  in 
Hollywood  and  occasionally  in  San  Francisco 
and  San  Diego.  He  told  Murphy  that  he 
was  working  on  the  newspaper,  endeavoring  to 
develop  himself  into  a  reporter. 

They  were  about  to  leave  and  had  turned 
away  from  the  bar  when  there  was  a  scuffle 
of  feet  at  the  front  door.  John  was  startled  to 
see  a  number  of  men  rush  in  and  form  a  line 
across  the  front  of  the  long  room. 

It  flashed  into  his  head  that  the  men  were 
bandits.  One  of  them,  he  saw,  had  a  gun  in 
his  hand.  But  this  suspicion  was  quickly 
routed  from  his  mind  when  one  of  the  men, 
apparently  the  leader,  stepped  forward  and 
shouted  a  command: 

"Get  in  the  corner,  there,  you  birds,  you're 
pinched,"  he  ordered. 

John  recognized  the  men  as  deputy  sheriffs 
and  for  a  moment  he  was  nonplussed.  Then 
he  stepped  forward  to  explain  there  was  no 
cause  for  them  to  arrest  them. 

"In    the    corner,    I    said,    in    the    corner," 


SPRING  STREET  179 

shouted  the  foremost  of  the  deputies,  pushing 
John  back.  "Get  over  there  or  I'll  put  you 
there,  see!" 

John  "saw."  He  stepped  back  into  the 
corner  of  the  room  which  the  deputy  indicated, 
joining  a  group  of  a  dozen  men  herded  there 
by  the  other  deputies  who  swept  through  the 
"saloon."  Murphy,  beside  him,  whispered 
in  his  ear : 

"Don't  get  excited,  kid,  it's  nuttin' ;  just 
another  phoney  pinch,  dat's  all." 

"But  what  for?"  asked  John. 

"Loiterin'  around  a  handbook  joint.  You'll 
be  squared,  kid,  you'll  be  squared.  Stick  with 
me  and  you'll  come  out  on  top;  ten  bucks 
to  the  good." 

One  of  the  deputies  marched  up  to  the 
corner,  pushing  a  young  fellow  before  him. 

"Tried  to  duck  out  the  back  door,"  the 
deputy  explained  to  his  brother  officers.  He 
shoved  his  prisoner  into  the  group  in  the 
corner.  "I  guess  that's  all  of  them.  Let's 
get  them  out  of  here.  Come  on,  you  birds, 
out  the  door;  step  lively  and  no  funny  busi 


ness." 


Murphy  was  at  his  side  as  they  walked  out 
into  the  street,  guarded  on  each  side  by  the 
deputies.  A  motor  truck  was  backed  up  to 
the  curb  and  in  it  were  fifteen  or  twenty  men, 
young  and  old,  laughing  and  smoking.  A 


180  SPRING  STREET 

crowd  of  men  and  women,  spectators  to  the 
raid,  thronged  the  sidewalk  on  either  side. 

John  stepped  to  the  side  of  one  of  the  de 
puties. 

"Listen,  old  man,"  he  said.  "I'm  a  re 
porter." 

The  deputy  stepped  back  in  mock  surprise. 

"You  don't  say  so!"  he  exclaimed.  "A 
reporter,  eh?  Well,  you  ain't  nobody,  see! 
Why,  one  of  your  pals  we  got  in  there  told 
me  he  was  the  sheriff's  nephew.  Another 
one  tried  to  bull  me  that  he  was  one  of  Gib 


son's  men." 


"Gibson!"  exclaimed  John.  Then  it  dawned 
on  him;  this  was  one  of  the  police  com 
missioner's  "personally  conducted"  raids,  his 
first  attack  on  "Gink"  Cummings,  without  a 
doubt. 

"Yes,  Gibson,"  said  the  deputy.  "What 
about  it?" 

"Is  this  one  of  Gibson's  raids?"  he  asked. 

"You  guessed  it,"  snapped  the  deputy. 
"Now,  get  along  there.  Hop  on  that  truck 
with  the  rest  of  the  gents  and  see  if  you  can't 
get  consolation  from  the  sheriff's  nephew  and 
the  bird  that  tried  to  bull  me  he  was  working 
for  Gibson." 

"But  I  am  a  reporter,"  protested  John. 
"You'll  find  out  soon  enough." 


SPRING  STREET  181 

"Don't  get  gay!"  threatened  the  deputy. 
"Don't  get  gay!" 

John   scrambled   on  the   truck. 

"Come  right  along,  brother,  join  our  party," 
said  a  red-faced  man  in  a  brown  check  suit 
and  a  greasy  derby  hat,  who  reached  down 
to  help  John  up. 

The  truck  was  now  crowded  with  stand 
ing  men.  Three  of  the  deputies  swung  them 
selves  up  on  the  back  of  it  to  act  as  a  rear 
guard.  Murphy  squirmed  through  the  tightly 
packed  load  until  he  reached  John's  side 
again. 

"Listen,  kid,"  he  said  in  his  husky  voice. 
"If  you  want  to  find  out  something  about  dis 
game,  just  keep  your  trap  shut  and  do  what 
Tim  Murphy  tells  you.  Get  me?  I  was  tipped 
to  dis  raid  but  I  didn't  know  it  was  coming  so 
soon  or  I'd  got  ya  out  of  it,  see?  It's  a  phoney, 
see.  There's  ten  bucks  in  it  for  ya  if  ya  go 
through  with  it  like  I  tell  ya,  see?" 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  Murphy?" 
John  demanded. 

"I  know  what  I'm  talkin'  about  and  don't 
you  forget  it,"  Murphy  said.  "Just  do  what 
I  tell  ya,  will  ya?" 

"All  right,"  he  agreed. 

The  truck  turned  to  the  left  at  First  and 
Spring  streets  and  struggled  up  the  grade  at 


182  SPRING  STREET 

First  west  of  Broadway,  backing  into  the 
curb  in  front  of  the  central  police  station.  By 
the  time  they  were  leaving  the  truck  John  had 
decided  to  "go  through  with  it,"  as  Murphy 
had  suggested.  It  would  be  an  adventure,  at 
least,  and  Murphy's  repeated  assertions  that 
it  was  ua  phoney"  invited  investigation.  He 
knew  that  a  word  to  Kenyon,  the  police  re 
porter  for  his  paper,  would  get  him  out  of  his 
trouble,  but  he  concluded  he  had  nothing  to 
lose  and  perhaps  something  to  gain  by  follow 
ing  Murphy's  whispered  instructions. 

Herded  into  an  alley-way  leading  back  to 
the  desk  sergeant's  room  were,  John  estimated, 
more  than  150  other  men  and  boys,  arrested 
like  himself  and  evidently  brought  to  head 
quarters  in  other  trucks.  In  this  crowd  he 
learned  that  every  place  along  Spring  street 
where  it  was  suspected  that  a  handbook  on  the 
races  at  Tia  Juana  was  being  operated  had 
been  raided  simultaneously  by  squads  of  dep 
uty  sheriffs  detailed  to  the  command  of  Police 
Commissioner  Gibson  by  the  sheriff.  Over 
the  heads  of  the  crowd  he  caught  a  glimpse  of 
Gibson  himself  surrounded  by  Kenyon  and 
the  other  police  reporters.  He  saw  Gibson 
pose  for  a  photograph  with  the  crowd  of  men 
he  had  arrested  as  a  background.  Once,  he 
thought,  he  had  a  glimpse  of  Brennan  in 
conversation  with  Police  Chief  Sweeney. 


SPRING  STREET  183 

"Have  ya  got  ten  bucks  on  ya?"  asked 
Murphy. 

"Why?"    he   asked. 

"Dat's   da   bail,"   explained   Murphy. 

"I've  got  it,"  he  said.     "Have  you  yours?" 

"Murphy's  always  got  his  bail  money  wid 
him,"  the  twisted  nose  youth  grinned.  "Re 
member,  now,  stick  wid  me." 

"Right-o,"    said  John. 

"Gwan!"  Murphy  made  the  word  the  acme 
of  disgust.  "If  I  hadn't  seen  ya  mix  it  wid 
de  Battler  I'd  bust  ya  for  dat,"  he  said.  Evi 
dently  "right-o"  wras  not  a  wrord  calculated  to 
win  in  Twisted  Nose's  vocabulary. 

Slowly,  like  a  line  of  theatergoers  approach 
ing  the  box  office,  the  crowd  worked  its  way 
toward  the  desk  sergeant's  counter,  where  two 
police  officers  were  booking  the  prisoners,  re 
ceiving  $10  in  bail  from  each  and  handing 
them  a  receipt  for  the  money.  Murphy  and 
John  finally  reached  the  counter. 

"Murphy — Tim  Murphy,"  said  John's  com 
panion,  stepping  up  to  the  desk  and  speaking 
before  the  desk  sergeant  asked  him  his  name, 
as  if  it  was  an  old  ceremony  which  he  knew  by 
heart. 

"Murphy — Tim  Murphy,"  repeated  the 
officer  at  the  huge  book.  "If  no  one  was 
looking,  Murphy,  I'd  slip  you  out  the  back 
door  for  having  a  name  like  that." 


184  SPRING  STREET 

Murphy  handed  over  his  $10  in  bail,  re 
ceived  his  receipt  slip  and  stepped  to  one  side 
to  wait  for  John. 

"Gallant — John  Gallant,"  said  John,  follow 
ing  Murphy's  lead. 

"Ten  bucks,"  said  the  desk  sergeant. 

MNo,  I  mean  what  am  I  arrested  for?" 

"Oh,  you're  particular,  are  you?  Well,  it's 
loitering  in  a  gambling  resort  and  playing  the 
handbook.  I  suppose  you'll  ask  for  a  jury 
trial?"  inquired  the  officer,  with  pretended 
politeness. 

He  produced  his  $10  and  was  given  a  re 
ceipt.  Murphy  tugged  at  his  arm. 

"Come  on,"  he  whispered.  "Da  sooner  we 
get  back  da  better." 

John  followed  him  out  into  the  street. 
Turning  to  the  right,  Murphy  walked  rapidly 
down  First  street  toward  Broadway,  his  arm 
hooked  to  John's. 

"Now,  Murphy,"  he  said,  "tell  me  what's 
this  all  about — what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Well,  listen,  kid,  and  I'll  spill  it  to  ya," 
Murphy  said,  talking  as  they  walked.  "Dis 
raid  was  all  a  phoney,  get  me?" 

"A   phoney?" 

"Ya,  a  phoney!  Fixed,  framed,  phoney, 
see  ?  I  get  my  orders  da  other  day.  A  friend 
o'  mine  tips  me.  He  steers  me  dat  de  hand 
books  are  goin'  to  be  pulled  and  if  I'm  pinched 


SPRING  STREET  185 

for  me  to  go  through  with  it  and  there'll  be 
ten  bucks  in  it  for  me." 

"How?"  asked  John,  impatiently. 

"I'll  get  my  ten  bucks  from  da  boss  for 
bein'  a  good  little  boy  and  gettin'  pinched, 
see?  It's  dis  way:  Dis  new  commissioner, 
Gibson,  wants  to  make  a  big  play,  get  me? 
He  wants  to  do  a  grandstand  on  da  book 
makers  and  de  'Gink's'  for  him,  see?" 

"The  'Gink'?"  exclaimed  John.  "'Gink' 
Cummings?" 

"Sssh,  not  so  loud,  not  so  loud,"  cautioned 
Murphy. 

"You  mean  to  tell  me  that  the  'Gink'  is  help 
ing  Gibson?"  John  demanded,  coming  to  a 
standstill. 

"Come  on,"  said  Murphy,  tugging  at  his 
arm.  "I  didn't  say  dat,  did  I?  All  I  said 
was  dat  da  'Gink'  was  for  him  pulling  the 
bookies.  Search  me,  why.  I  figures  it  dat  da 
'Gink'  has  split  with  da  bookies  and  is  out  to 
teach  'em  to  behave." 

"Then  this  raid  was  just  what  Cummings 
wanted?" 

"Dat's  it.  If  it  wasn't  we  wouldn't  be  get- 
tin'  our  ten  back  and  ten  on  top  of  it.  I  was 
steered  to  hang  around  a  bookmaking  joint 
for  a  few  days  so  dat  when  Gibson  and  his 
deputies  come  there  would  be  somebody  to 
get  pinched,  see?" 


186  SPRING  STREET 

"And  were  all  those  other  men  tipped  to  do 
the  same  thing?" 

"Sure.  Dey  got  a  few  suckers  but  de  bunch 
was  all  in  on  the  know." 

"But  how  did  the  'Gink'  know  beforehand 
that  the  raid  was  going  to  be  made?" 

"Say,"  expostulated  Murphy,  "ask  me  some- 
pun  easy,  will  ya?  Da  'Gink'  knows  every 
thing  before  it  happens,  see?  If  he  didn't 
he  wouldn't  be  da  'Gink,'  dat's  all." 

A  thrill  went  through  John.  He  was  "in 
on  the  know,"  as  Murphy  had  put  it.  What 
a  discovery  he  had  made !  What  would  Bren- 
nan  say  when  he  told  him?  What  would  the 
mayor  say?  And  what  would  Gibson  say? 

They  were  back  before  the  place  in  which 
they  had  been  arrested.  Murphy  turned,  guid 
ing  John  by  the  arm  with  him. 

"Now  keep  your  trap  shut  and  let  me  do  da 
talkin',  see?"  he  admonished  as  they  went 
through  the  swinging  doors. 

Inside  things  were  exactly  as  they  had  been 
before  the  raid,  except  that  there  were  twice 
as  many  in  the  long  room.  John  recognized, 
the  red-faced  man  in  the  brown  check  suit 
and  the  greasy  derby  hat  who  had  helped 
him  on  to  the  truck  as  he  stood  at  the  bar,  a 
glass  of  near-beer  in  front  of  him  and  chat 
ting  with  the  bartender,  who  was  pulling  on  his 
white  coat  again. 


SPRING  STREET  187 

Murphy  led  him  to  the  back  room  and 
rapped  on  a  door. 

"Come  in,"   a  voice  called. 

Murphy  opened  the  door  and  entered,  beck 
oning  to  John  with  a  jerk  of  the  head  to  fol 
low  him. 


CHAPTER  XII 

room  was  small  and  dark,  the  only 
light  coming  from  an  electric  lamp  over  an 
old-fashioned,  battered  roll-top  desk  that  com 
pletely  filled  the  wall  at  one  end.  Between 
John  and  Murphy  and  the  desk  was  a  scarred 
oak  table  behind  which  sat  a  thin-faced  man, 
an  unlighted  cigar  protruding  from  a  corner 
of  his  mouth. 

"Shut  the  door,"  said  the  man,  without  re 
moving  the  cigar. 

John  closed  the   door. 

"Who's  this  with  you,  Murphy?"  the  man 
snapped  out  his  words  and  eyed  John  keenly. 

"He's  all  right,  Slim,"  Murphy  replied. 

"Sure?"    asked    "Slim,"    quizzically. 

"I  ain't  gonna  let  anybody  fool  you  or  me, 
am  I,  Slim?" 

"Not  if  you  want  to  stay  alive,"  returned 
"Slim."  "Was  he  picked  up  in  the  raid,  too?" 

"He  was  wit  me  all  through  it,"  said  Mur 
phy. 

"All  right,  then,  I'll  take  your  word  for  it, 
Murphy,"  said  the  man  behind  the  desk. 
"But  remember,  if  he's  a  stoolie,  you're  the 
bird  that's  going  to  get  it." 

"Don't  I  know?"  Murphy  assured  him. 


SPRING  STREET  189 

"Where's  your   tag?"    asked   "Slim." 

Murphy  produced  the  receipt  for  his  bail 
money  and  tossed  it  on  the  table.  uSlim"  ex 
amined  it  and  then,  without  looking  up,  asked : 

"And  where's  yours?" 

John  noticed  Murphy's  almost  impercep 
tible  jerk  of  his  head.  He  drew  his  bail  receipt 
from  his  pocket  and  tossed  it  on  the  table  as 
Murphy  had  done.  Holding  the  slip  of  paper 
in  both  hands  "Slim"  examined  it  closely, 
looked  up  inquiringly  at  John,  and  then  reach 
ed  into  his  pocket,  bringing  forth  a  thick  roll 
of  bills.  He  snapped  the  rubber  band  from 
the  roll  and  extracted  from  it  four  bills.  Re 
turning  the  roll  to  his  pocket  he  divided  the 
four  bills  equally  and  pushed  them  across  the 
table. 

Murphy  took  two  of  the  bills  and  John 
reached  out  his  hand  for  the  other  two.  As 
his  fingers  touched  the  bills,  "Slim's"  hand 
closed  down  on  them. 

"Just  a  minute,"  he  heard  "Slim"  say.  His 
nerves  jerked  tight  as  he  looked  down  into 
the  thin,  hard  face  of  the  man  in  the  chair. 
For  two  or  three  seconds  they  looked  into 
each  other's  eyes.  Then  "Slim"  spoke. 

"You're  on  the  square  with  Murphy  and 
me?"  he  asked. 

John  nodded  his  head.  "Slim"  still  held 
his  hand  on  the  bills. 


190  SPRING  STREET 

"Say   it,"    he    demanded. 

"I'm  on  the   square  with  you,"   John  said. 

"Slim"   released  his  hand. 

"All  right,  beat  it  now  and  forget  you  ever 
saw  me,"  he  said.  John  and  Murphy  left  the 
room,  each  with  two  $10  bills.  The  red- 
faced  man  with  the  greasy  derby  winked  at 
John  as  they  passed  him.  They  hurried 
through  the  afternoon  crowd  in  Spring  street 
until  they  were  a  block  from  the  saloon. 

John  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Murphy,"  he  said,  "who  is  this  man, 
'Slim'?" 

"  'Slim's'  da  right-hand  man  for  da  'Gink.' 
He's  one  of  da  few  birds  da  'Gink'  will  trust. 
And  he's  one  hard-boiled  guy,  believe  me." 

"Whose  money  was  that  he  paid  us?" 

"Well,"  Murphy  replied,  "  'Slim'  gets  his 
jack  from  da  'Gink.'  ' 

"Are  you  sure  of  that?" 

"Say,  whatcha  think  'Slim'  is,  a  Christmas 
tree?" 

"Now,  let  me  get  this  right,"  said  John. 
"The  'Gink'  knew  this  raid  was  coming  off. 
He  arranged  with  you  and  most  of  the  others 
who  were  arrested  to  be  at  the  places  to  be 
raided  so  that  Gibson's  men  would  have  a 
crowd  to  take  to  central  station.  Then  each 
of  those  who  were  arrested  and  who  were 
'in  on  the  know,'  as  you  say,  were  given  the 


SPRING  STREET  191 

$10  they  put  up  for  bail  and  $10  extra  for  be 
ing  on  hand  to  be  arrested.     Is  that  it?" 

"Dat's  it." 

"And  you  figure  that  the  'Gink'  wanted 
Gibson's  raid  to  be  a  success  because  the  'Gink' 
has  split  with  the  bookmakers  and  wants  to 
make  trouble  for  them?" 

"Dat's  da  way  I  dope  it,"  Murphy  as 
sented. 

"And  we  forfeit  our  bail  and  forget  all 
about  it?" 

"Sure." 

"If  any  more  of  these  framed-up  raids  are 
made,  will  you  know  about  it?"  John  asked. 

"Sure,  dey  always  fix  it  for  us  regular  guys." 

"Well,  Murphy,"  said  John,  halting  at  a 
corner,  "I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  do  something 
for  me.  If  you  find  out  that  anything  like 
this  is  going  to  happen  again,  will  you  let  me 
know  about  it?" 

"Sure  thing;  where  can  I  get  ya?" 

John  gave  him  the  number  of  the  reporters' 
telephone  at  his  office.  In  exchange  Murphy 
gave  him  the  address  of  his  room,  in  East 
Third  street. 

"You  won't  forget?"  cautioned  John  as  they 
shook  hands.  Murphy  promised  him  again 
and  they  separated  after  John  had  thanked 
him  for  letting  him  "in  on  the  know." 

He  hurried  back  toward  the  office,  stopping 


192  SPRING  STREET 

only  to  buy  the  late  edition  of  his  paper. 
Across  the  top  of  the  front  page,  in  big,  heavy 
black  type,  was  the  headline:  "Gibson  Leads 
Big  Spring  Street  Raid."  Under  this  and 
above  the  story  of  the  raid  was  another  "head" 
which  read:  "Commissioner  Says  He's  After 
'Gink'  Cummings;  200  Arrested."  The  photo 
graph  of  Gibson  standing  near  the  men  ar 
rested  in  the  raid,  which  John  had  noticed 
him  posing  for,  occupied  a  four-column  space. 

At  the  office  P.  Q.  greeted  him  with  a  scowl. 

"Well,  where  have  you  been  all  afternoon?" 
the  city  editor  demanded. 

"I  was  picked  up  in  Gibson's  raid,"  John 
replied. 

"What's  the  big  idea?" 

"I  didn't  have  any  idea  of  getting  arrested. 
And  I  think  I've  discovered  something  big." 

"What  do  you  mean,  big?"  Then  John 
told  him  the  story  of  his  experience  from  be 
ginning  to  end,  producing  the  two  $10  bills 
as  evidence.  He  related  all  that  Murphy  had 
told  him  and  how  Murphy  had  promised 
to  tell  him  in  advance  of  a  repetition  of  the 
occurrence. 

P.  Q.  listened  to  him  attentively,  whistling 
softly  when  he  had  finished. 

"Do  you  think  Murphy  is  right  in  believ 
ing  that  the  'Gink's'  only  motive  was  to  make 
trouble  for  the  bookmakers?"  he  asked.  "Per- 


SPRING  STREET  193 

sonally,  I  doubt  if  the  'Gink'  would  play  into 
the  hands  of  Gibson  like  that  even  if  he  was 
fighting  the  bookmakers,  providing,  of  course, 
that  he  has  reason  to  fear  Gibson." 

Before  John  could  reply  Brennan  appeared 
and  the  whole  story  was  related  to  him. 

"Your  friend,  Murphy,  is  off  on  the  wrong 
foot,"  Brennan  said.  "Don't  you  know  what's 
happening?  The  'Gink'  is  playing  Gibson's 
game  and  Gibson  is  playing  his  just  like  the 
mayor  suspects.  Someone  has  told  Gibson  that 
people  are  wondering  why  he  doesn't  start 
after  the  'Gink.'  So  what  does  he  do?  He 
arranges  with  the  'Gink'  to  put  on  a  grand 
stand  raid  in  Spring  street  and  Cummings  fixes 
it  with  your  friend,  Murphy,  and  the  others 
to  submit  to  arrest,  paying  their  bail  money 
and  adding  $10  to  it  to  compensate  them  for 
their  trouble,  and  Gibson  is  able  to  make  a 
big  showing. 

"Don't  you  suppose  that  the  'Gink'  would 
realize  that  the  minute  he  tried  doing  what 
your  friend  Murphy  thinks,  some  one  of  the 
bookmakers  would  get  wise  to  it  and  holler?" 

"That's  my  idea  of  it,"  put  in  P.  Q. 

John  was  astounded  at  Brennan's  revelation. 
Clearly  Brennan's  view  of  the  case  was  more 
reasonable,  more  logical,  than  that  given  him 
by  Murphy.  He  remembered  having  told 
Gibson  when  they  met  in  Consuello's  dressing 


194  SPRING  STREET 

room  that  newspapermen  were  questioning 
why  he  did  not  attack  "Gink"  Cummings  and 
he  remembered  Gibson's  answer  that  he  was 
about  to  make  such  a  move. 

"By  George,  Gallant,"  exclaimed  Brennan, 
"your  little  experience  this  afternoon  is  liable 
to  turn  the  town  over,  if  I'm  not  mistaken. 
That's  why  Gibson  came  out  with  a  statement 
after  the  raid  denouncing  the  'Gink'  and 
claiming  that  he  had  gone  right  into  the 
'Gink's'  territory  to  demonstrate  to  the  peo 
ple  that  he  was  out  to  get  Cummings.  It's  a 
frame-up  from  start  to  finish.  The  'Gink's' 
smart  enough  to  know  that  Gibson  couldn't 
carry  through  his  plan  to  overthrow  the  ad 
ministration  unless  he  made  some  pretense  of 
opposing  him  and  so  he  fixes  up  this  raid." 

"The  question  is,  What  are  we  going  to  do 
with  what  we  have?"  commented  the  city 
editor.  "Do  you  suppose  Murphy  would  come 
through  with  an  affidavit?" 

"Not  unless  we  furnished  him  with  pro 
tection,"  said  John. 

"As  it  stands,"  said  Brennan,  "we  have 
Gallant's  story  and  only  our  conclusions  as  to 
what  was  back  of  it  all.  We  haven't  quite 
enough  yet.  For  example,  this  fellow  'Slim,' 
who  paid  you  the  money  may  be  the  'Gink's' 
right-hand  man,  all  right,  but  how  are  we  going 


SPRING  STREET  195 

to  prove  it?  And,  besides,  all  we  know  is 
that  Gallant  and  Murphy  were  paid  off.  We 
don't  actually  know  that  anyone  else  received 
their  bail  money  back  and  $10  on  top  of  it. 

"This  information  that  Gallant  has  brought 
in  satisfies  me  beyond  all  doubt  that  the  may 
or's  right  in  suspecting  that  the  'Gink'  is  back 
of  Gibson.  But,  before  we  shoot,  it  seems  to 
me  that  we  ought  to  have  a  little  more  stuff. 
We've  got  to  show  that  Gibson  and  the  'Gink' 
are  actually  working  together." 

"Brennan's  right,"  P.  Q.  concurred.  "Your 
story  is  dynamite,  Gallant,  but  we  need  a  fuse 
to  explode  it.  We  had  better  sit  tight  and  if 
it  occurs  again  be  in  on  it  so  that  we  can  get 
something  to  show  beyond  all  doubt  that  Gib 
son  is  a  faker  and  a  tool  of  the  'Gink.'  In 
the  meantime,  Gallant,  you  keep  in  close  touch 
with  your  friend  Murphy." 

"What  about  putting  it  up  to  Gibson  and 
seeing  what  he  has  to  say?"  John  suggested. 

"What  about  it,  Brennan?"  asked  P.  Q. 

"That  wouldn't  get  us  anywhere,"  said 
Brennan.  "And  if  Gibson  is  playing  the 
'Gink's'  game  it  would  only  warn  him  that  we 
have  reason  to  suspect  him  and  they'd  be  so 
careful  we'd  never  have  a  chance  to  upset 
them.  Your  idea  is  the  best,  P.  Q.  Sit  tight 
for  a  while  and  see  what  happens  next." 


196  SPRING  STREET 

John  told  the  story  of  his  experience  in 
Gibson's  raid  on  the  Spring  street  bookmakers 
to  two  other  persons,  the  mayor  and  the  pub 
lisher  of  the  paper  that  employed  him,  Cyrus 
W.  Phillips,  known  fraternally  to  his  men  as 
the  "chief."  He  was  accompanied  to  the  pri 
vate  office  of  the  publisher  by  P.  Q.,  who  in 
formed  him  that  his  discovery  of  what  could 
be  regarded  as  evidence  that  there  was  an 
alliance  between  Gibson  and  "Gink"  Cum- 
mings  had  brought  the  situation  to  a  point 
where  orders  were  to  be  given  by  the  "chief," 
who  supervised  the  policy  of  the  paper. 

Mr.  Phillips,  a  keen-eyed,  energetic  man, 
who  unselfishly  bestowed  the  credit  for  the 
success  of  his  newspaper  on  the  men  who 
worked  under  him,  listened  to  John's  story 
with  interest.  It  was  John's  first  meeting 
with  the  "chief,"  for  whom  even  Brennan, 
with  all  his  skepticism,  had  a  profound  re 
spect  and  the  rapidity  with  which  the  publisher 
gave  his  decision  won  his  admiration. 

"The  policy  of  this  paper  has  been  to  keep 
out  of  politics,"  he  said,  "but  this  young  man's 
story,  with  what  it  undoubtedly  suggests, 
brings  us  face  to  face  with  the  duty  we  have 
always  endeavored  to  fulfill,  that  is,  to  attack 
graft  and  corruption  wherever  we  find  them. 
We  have  no  pledge  to  support  either  the 
mayor  or  Commissioner  Gibson  and  we  are 


SPRING  STREET  197 

only  for  the  one  who  is  doing  the  right  thing 
in  the  right  way. 

"  'Gink'  Cummings  and  men  of  his  type 
we  regard  as  a  menace  to  Los  Angeles  against 
whom  every  effort  should  be  made.  If  Gib 
son  is  a  masquerader  in  league  with  Cummings 
he  must  be  exposed.  If  this  is  only  an  attempt 
at  political  retaliation  by  the  mayor  we  must 
condemn  it. 

"We  have  indisputable  evidence  that  the 
raid  was  framed  by  Cummings,  but  whether 
he  acted  to  make  trouble  for  the  bookmakers 
or  to  enable  Gibson  to  make  a  big  showing 
we  do  not  know.  The  more  logical  view  to 
take  is  that  there  may  be  an  alliance  between 
Gibson  and  Cummings,  improbable  as  it  may 
appear.  But  we  must  not  pre-judge  nor  act 
hastily. 

"Commissioner  Gibson  has  the  support  of 
the  churches  and  the  business  men  of  Los 
Angeles.  If  he  has  deceived  them  and  is  only 
a  tool  for  Cummings,  he  is  the  most  infamous 
imposter  that  the  city  has  ever  known  and  it 
would  be  a  big  thing  for  us  as  well  as  a  great 
deed  in  behalf  of  the  city  if  we  are  able  to 
expose  him.  On  the  other  hand,  if  Gibson  is 
really  what  he  claims  to  be  and  what  his  sup 
porters  believe  him  to  be,  he  is  working  for  the 
betterment  of  Los  Angeles  and  is  entitled  to 
our  unqualified  support. 


198  SPRING  STREET 

"Consequently,  we  must  keep  our  eyes  open. 
We  must  work  to  establish  beyond  all  doubt 
Gibson's  sincerity  or  duplicity.  What  we  do 
must  be  fair  and  fearless  and  with  only  one 
object,  the  welfare  of  the  city  of  Los  Angeles." 

"Would  it  be  advisable  to  let  the  mayor 
hear  Gallant's  story?"  asked  P.  Q. 

"Only  with  the  distinct  understanding  that  it 
is  not  to  be  used  by  him  for  any  purpose  what 
soever  and  that  we  are  taking  a  strictly  neu 
tral  position  on  it,  even  inclining  to  the  view 
that  it  does  not  necessarily  indicate  that  Gib 
son  and  Cummings  are  in  a  conspiracy,"  the 
publisher  replied.  "I  can  say  this  much  to 
you,  I  admire  the  mayor  for  having  made  an 
enemy  of  'Gink'  Cummings." 

As  they  left  his  office  the  "chief"  shook 
hands  with  John. 

"P.  Q.  tells  me  you  have  not  been  with 
us  long,"  he  said.  "The  information  you  have 
obtained  for  us  is  very  important  and  you  did 
well.  I  want  you  to  feel  that  you  know  me 
now  and  that  I  am  very  glad  you  are  with  us." 

He  visited  the  mayor's  office  in  company 
with  Brennan  to  whom  P.  Q.  had  imparted 
the  publisher's  instructions.  The  mayor's  sec 
retary  ushered  them  into  his  office  immediately. 
He  greeted  them  both  warmly  and  opened 
the  conversation  with  a  question  directed  to 
Brennan. 


SPRING  STREET  199 

"What  do  you  make  of  Gibson's  raid  yes 
terday?"  he  asked. 

"We'll  answer  that  by  telling  you  some 
thing  mighty  interesting,"  said  Brennan.  "Gal 
lant  here  has  some  information  that  will  knock 
your  eye  out." 

Once  again  John  told  his  story,  from  be 
ginning  to  end.  As  he  related  it  the  mayor 
sat  upright  in  his  chair,  listening  so  intently  to 
every  word  that  the  fire  at  the  end  of  his 
cigar  died  out  and  the  ash  dropped  unnoticed 
on  his  coat  front.  When  John  concluded  the 
mayor  bounced  out  of  his  chair,  circled  his 
desk  and  seizing  him  by  the  hand  exclaimed: 

"My  boy,  you've  done  it!" 

John's  story  seemed  to  have  rejuvenated 
him.  He  shook  hands  with  Brennan,  went 
back  to  his  desk,  sat  down,  bounced  up  again, 
wasted  five  matches  in  a  vain  attempt  to  re 
light  his  cigar  and  then  chose  a  fresh  one 
from  a  box  he  took  from  a  drawer. 

"I  know  that  fellow  'Slim'  who  paid  you 
the  money,"  the  mayor  went  on.  "His  name 
is  Gray  and  he  IS  the  'Gink's'  right-hand  man; 
has  been  for  years.  It  almost  made  me  be 
lieve  Gibson  might  be  straight  when  he  con 
ducted  that  raid  yesterday.  I  was  beginning 
to  wonder  if  I  wasn't  mistaken,  after  all,  but 
now  I'm  convinced  for  once  and  all  that  he  is 
the  'Gink's'  man.  I'm  willing  to  wager  my 


200  SPRING  STREET 

life  that  he  and  Cummings  arranged  for  that 
raid  yesterday  because  they  knew  that  people 
were  beginning  to  ask  themselves  why  he 
didn't  get  after  the  'Gink.' 

"What  a  shrewd  pair  they  are !  I've  got 
the  fight  of  my  life  on  my  hands  now  and  you, 
my  boy" — to  Gallant — "have  done  something 
for  me  I'll  never  forget.  Brennan,  what  are 
you  going  to  do  with  this  evidence?" 

Brennan  explained  how  the  matter  had  been 
presented  to  the  publisher  of  their  paper  and 
related  what  the  "chief"  had  said  to  John 
and  P.  Q.  He  cautioned  the  mayor  that 
John's  story  was  not  to  be  used  by  him  or 
revealed  to  anyone. 

"Trust  me,"  assured  the  mayor.  "But  can 
I  rely  upon  you  boys  to  keep  me  in  touch  with 
what  develops?" 

"We  will  tell  you  everything  we  are  per 
mitted  to  disclose,"  promised  Brennan.  "In 
return  for  what  information  we  give  you  we 
will  expect  you  to  furnish  us  with  what  infor 
mation  comes  into  your  hands." 

"Agreed,"  said  the  mayor. 

Brennan  and  John  rose  to  leave.  The 
mayor  came  from  behind  his  desk  and  with  his 
arms  around  their  shoulders  walked  with  them 
to  the  door.  There  he  chuckled,  and,  leaning 
toward  them,  said: 


SPRING  STREET  201 

"Boys,  I  guess  your  old  Uncle  Dudley  isn't 
such  a  so-and-so  kind  of  an  old  fool  after  all, 
is  he?" 

From  the  city  hall  John  and  Brennan,  by 
previous  arrangement,  sought  out  Murphy, 
whom  they  found  at  the  East  Third  street 
rooming  house,  the  address  of  which  he  had 
given  John.  His  room  was  cheaply  furnished 
and  the  walls  of  it  decorated  with  prints  of 
boxers,  sporting  life  notables,  knockout  fight 
pictures  and  photographs  of  shapely  bathing 
beauties  in  one-piece  suits.  He  appeared  sur 
prised  when  the  two  reporters  entered  as  he 
opened  the  door. 

"Murphy,"  said  John,  "this  is  Brennan,  a 
friend  of  mine.  We  want  to  have  a  little  talk 
with  you." 

"Glad  to  meet  a  friend  of  da  Gallant  kid," 
Murphy  said,  shaking  hands  with  Brennan. 
He  reached  into  a  drawer  and  brought  out  a 
quart  bottle  of  whisky  which  he  placed  on  a 
table  with  a  single  glass  into  which  he  poured 
a  generous  portion. 

"Drink  up,  gents,  and  do  your  stuff,"  he 
invited. 

John  did  the  talking.  He  explained  to 
Murphy  that  he  and  Brennan  were  newspaper' 
men  and  that  he  had  told  Brennan  of  their 
experience  in  the  raid  and  their  meeting  with 
"Slim"  Gray. 


202  SPRING  STREET 

"Hey,  back  up,"  Murphy  interrupted.  "Let 
me  get  ya  straight.  Are  you  birds  plannin' 
to  show  'Slim'  and  the  'Gink'  up?" 

"Murphy,"  said  John,  "can  we  trust  you?" 

"I  went  da  limit  for  you,  didn't  I?"  asked 
Murphy,  looking  at  John. 

"You  did,"  agreed  John,  remembering  how 
Murphy  had  vouched  for  him  to  "Slim"  Gray. 
"That's  why  we're  here  now.  We  figure  you 
can  help  us  and  if  you  do  we'll  see  that  you 
are  taken  care  of." 

"You're    straight    with    dat?" 

"Absolutely." 

"Well,  do  your  stuff,  then,  do  your  stuff !" 

At  a  nod  from  Brennan,  John  placed  the 
whole  situation  before  Murphy,  explaining 
every  part  of  it  carefully. 

"Now,  what  we  want  you  to  do  is  this," 
he  said.  "We  want  you  to  find  out  everything 
you  can  about  what  the  'Gink'  is  doing  and 
let  us  know  as  soon  as  you  learn  it." 

Murphy  listened  without  interrupting  until 
John  had  finished. 

"Do  you  know  what'll  happen  to  me  if  de 
'Gink'  finds  I'm  peachin'  on  him?"  he  asked. 

"We  have  an  idea "  John  began. 

"An  idea!"  Murphy  exclaimed,  contemp 
tuously.  "Well,  I  got  more  than  an  idea,  see? 


SPRING  STREET  203 

I  know  what'd  happen  to  me,  see?  I  get  my 
head  kicked  in,  see?" 

"We'll  promise  you  that  for  every  piece  of 
information  you  give  us  you'll  get  enough 
money  to  make  it  worth  your  while,"  put  in 
Brennan. 

"Dat's  straight?"  asked  Murphy,  turning 
to  John. 

"That's  straight,"  John  assured  him. 

They  left  a  few  minutes  later  with  Mur 
phy's  pledge,  given  with  an  oath  worded  far 
stronger  than  the  customary  legal  one,  to  act 
as  their  informant  and  to  keep  secret  every 
word  they  had  told  him. 

"De  'Gink's'  no  pal  of  mine,  see?"  said 
Murphy  as  they  left  his  room.  "I'm  wise 
enough  to  know  that  he'd  cross  me  in  a  minute, 
see?" 

The  interrogative  "see?"  that  Murphy  used 
to  punctuate  his  sentences  was  invariably  ac 
companied  with  a  gesture  of  his  hand  that 
resembled  a  baseball  umpire's  gesture  in  call 
ing  a  runner  safe  at  a  base  more  than  any 
thing  John  could  think  of. 

Before  dinner  that  night  Mrs.  Gallant 
handed  him  an  envelope  which  she  said  she 
received  in  the  afternoon's  mail.  It  was  ad 
dressed  to  him  and  opening  it  he  found  that 
it  was  a  note  from  Consuello. 


204  SPRING  STREET 

"My  dear  Mr.  Gallant,"  he  read,  "could 
you  and  your  dear  mother  accompany  me 
home  Sunday  for  dinner?  I  can  arrange  to 
call  for  you  and  bring  you  home  in  the  car.  I 
would  be  delighted  to  have  you  with  me  and 
am  anxious  for  father  and  mother  to  meet 
Mrs.  Gallant.  Cordially,  Consuello  Carrillo." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SINCE  the  night  Mrs.  Gallant  had  gone 
weeping  to  her  room  after  John  told  her 
that  Consuello  played  in  motion  pictures,  the 
girl  had  never  been  mentioned  by  either  of 
them.  John  refrained  from  speaking  of  her 
because  he  decided  that  until  he  found  some 
way  to  overcome  the  prejudice  his  mother 
held  it  would  only  cause  unpleasantness. 
There  had  never  been  a  night  following  that 
when  Mrs.  Gallant  had  displayed  her  disap 
proval  of  Consuello  that  John  had  not 
racked  his  brain  to  decide  how  he  could  eradi 
cate  his  mother's  intolerant  attitude  and  bring 
her  to  know  and  appreciate  Consuello  for 
the  girl  she  was. 

At  times  he  was  annoyed  by  his  mother's 
bigotry  which  gave  her,  in  Consuello's  case, 
an  unreasonableness  that  amounted  almost  to 
fanaticism  and  embittered  the  natural  sweet 
ness  of  her  character  and  disposition.  His  sus 
picion  that  her  condemnation  of  photoplays 
and  everyone  connected  with  them  was  being 
fostered  by  someone  else  had  been  substan 
tiated  by  an  incident  which  occurred  shortly 
after  the  night  she  had  turned  her  back  on 
Consuello. 

That    Mrs.    Sprockett,    "from    across    the 


206  SPRING  STREET 

street" — as  John  always  thought  of  her — had 
interrupted  one  of  the  evening  chats  he  always 
had  with  his  mother.  His  impulsive  dislike 
of  Mrs.  Sprockett  caused  him  to  leave  her 
alone  on  the  porch  with  his  mother  while  he 
retired  to  the  living  room  to  read.  The  win 
dow  to  the  porch  was  open. 

"Isn't  it  terrible?"  he  heard  Mrs.  Sprockett 
say.  "They  tell  me  that  she  had  been  married 
three  times  and  smokes  cigarettes  right  in  front 
of  everyone.  Women  like  her  are  a  disgrace 
to  a  nation  and  we  mothers  should  do  some 
thing,  I  tell  you." 

From  further  snatches  of  the  conversation 
John  learned  that  Mrs.  Sprockett  was  re 
ferring  to  a  motion  picture  actress  who  had 
been  given  a  decree  of  divorce  that  day. 

"I  told  my  Alma  at  dinner,  tonight,  that 
she  had  better  not  let  me  catch  her  sneaking 
off  to  the  picture  show,"  Mrs.  Sprockett  con 
tinued.  Alma,  John  knew,  was  the  oldest 
of  Mrs.  Sprockett's  daughters.  "What  are 
things  coming  to  when  girls  wear  their  skirts 
above  their  knees  and  bob  their  hair  and 
think  nothing  of  taking  up  with  the  first  man 
they  meet?  When  you  and  I  were  girls,  Mrs. 
Gallant,  we  would  have  been  locked  up  if  we 
had  attempted  such  performances. 

"I  tell  you  we  owe  it  to  our  children  to 
crush  these  creatures  that  set  such  wicked  ex- 


SPRING  STREET  207 

amples.  And  Mr.  Sprockett  agrees  with 
me  in  every  word  I  say." 

As  far  as  John  knew,  Mrs.  Sprockett's  hus 
band  had  never,  never  disagreed  with  her — 
for  good  and  sufficient  reasons.  He  had 
recalled  how  Mrs.  Sprockett's  husband  trailed 
her  from  house  to  house  in  the  neighbor 
hood  evenings  while  the  Sprockett  baby  wailed 
for  attention. 

He  drew  Consuello's  note  from  his  pocket 
while  he  and  his  mother  were  in  the  living 
room  after  dinner  and  read  it  again.  He 
debated  in  his  mind  what  he  should  do  and 
finally  handed  it  to  his  mother  without  a  word. 
Mrs.  Gallant  adjusted  her  spectacles  and  read 
the  note  through  slowly.  John  studied  her 
face  and  he  imagined  he  saw  her  lips  trem 
ble  slightly. 

She  evaded  meeting  his  eyes  as  she  handed 
the  note  back  to  him.  He  waited  for  her 
to  speak,  but  she  was  silent  and  he  realized 
with  a  sinking  feeling  that  her  attitude  toward 
Consuello  had  not  changed.  He  determined, 
however,  to  dispose  of  the  matter  quickly. 

"Well,  mother,"  he  said.  "How  shall  I 
answer  her?" 

"It  was  very  kind  of  her  to  include  me  but 
under  the  circumstances,  John,  I " 

"Very  well,  mother." 

"But,  my  boy " 


208  SPRING  STREET 

"Yes." 


"Yes." 

"Don't  let  me  stop  you  from  going  and 
please  don't  let  it  harden  your  heart  against 
me." 

"Mother,  are  you  sure  you're  not  making  a 
sad  mistake  in  letting  your  heart  harden 
against  her?"  he  could  not  resist  saying. 

Her  lips  trembled  and  her  handkerchief 
went  to  her  eyes.  Leaving  his  chair  he  crossed 
to  where  she  was  sitting  and  put  his  arm 
around  her. 

"There,  mother,  we  must  not  let  anything 
come  between  us,"  he  said,  tenderly.  "It's  all 
right,  mother;  it's  all  right!" 

The  next  day,  Saturday,  he  telephoned  to 
Consuello  early  in  the  morning,  soon  after 
he  reached  the  office,  in  order  to  catch  her  be 
fore  she  left  for  the  studio. 

"I  was  just  about  to  call  you,"  she  said. 
"Did  you  get  my  note?" 

"Yes." 

"I'm  so  sorry,  but  it  will  be  impossible  for 
me  to  get  home,  tomorrow.  My  director  in 
sists  that  we  go  out  on  location  in  the  morning. 
You  understand,  don't  you?" 

"Certainly,"  he  replied.  He  had  decided  to 
tell  her  that  his  mother  was  ill  and  unable  to 
accept  her  invitation.  His  relief  was  beyond 
words  when  he  discovered  that  it  would  be  un 
necessary  for  him  to  fabricate  an  excuse  for 


SPRING  STREET  209 

Mrs.  Gallant,  although  he  realized  it  was  only 
postponing  the  time  when  he  should  be  com 
pelled  to  prevent  Consuello  learning  of  his 
mother's  harsh  judgment  of  her. 

"I  was  so  anxious  that  we  should  have  a 
perfect  day  together,  your  mother,  yourself, 
father  and  mother  and  I.  But  we  can  ar 
range  it  for  some  other  time,  can't  we?" 

"I'm  sure  we  can."  He  felt  justified  some 
how  in  taking  this  optimistic  view. 

"And  I  wanted  to  ask  you,  would  you 
care  to  come  out  with  us  on  location,  tomor 
row?  We  have  several  scenes  to  do  and 
I'm  sure  you  will  find  it  interesting." 

"It  would   be   wonderful." 

"If  you  can  be  at  the  studio  at  nine?" 

"I'll  be  there." 

"And  you'll  explain  how  it  is  to  your  mother 
and  tell  her  how  sorry  I  am,  won't  you?" 

"She'll  understand."  He  felt  he  was  not 
trifling  as  much  with  truth  in  that  answer. 

Carrying  out  a  conclusion  he  reached  during 
the  day,  John  did  not  tell  his  mother  of  his 
conversation  over  the  telephone  with  Con 
suello.  He  told  her  only  that  he  would  be 
away  most  of  Sunday,  permitting  her  to  de 
duce  that  he  had  accepted  Consuello's  invi 
tation  and  had  made  some  explanation  of  her 
absence. 

A    dozen    automobiles    were    in    line    along 


210  SPRING  STREET 

the  driveway  of  the  Peerless  studio  when 
John  arrived  promptly  at  nine  o'clock,  the 
following  morning.  Consuello  had  evidently 
told  the  guard  at  the  gate  that  she  was  ex 
pecting  him.  It  was  only  necessary  for  him 
to  mention  his  name. 

"Miss  Carrillo  asks  that  you  be  directed  to 
her  dressing  room,"  the  gateman  said. 

With  one  exception  the  automobiles  were 
already  occupied.  John  recognized  the  cam 
eramen  with  their  equipment  piled  in  one  of 
the  cars.  In  another  he  discerned  his  guide, 
"John  J.  Silence,"  and  in  another  he  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  sad-eyed  bass  'cello  player, 
his  huge  instrument  beside  him. 

As  he  left  the  driveway  to  cross  to  the 
dressing  room  building  he  saw  Consuello  com 
ing  toward  him.  She  wore  the  dainty  white 
"old  fashioned"  dress,  as  John  had  named 
it  in  his  mind,  that  she  had  when  they  first  met 
at  the  Barton  Randolph  lawn  fete.  She  was 
Consuello  and  yet  because  of  her  facial  "make 
up,"  she  was  the  girl  he  had  seen  before  the 
camera  on  the  occasion  of  his  first  visit  to  the 
studio. 

"They're  waiting  for  me,"  she  explained  as 
John  met  her.  "You'll  ride  with  us." 

She  led  him  to  the  first  automobile  in  the 
line.  In  the  front  seat,  beside  the  driver,  was 


SPRING  STREET  211 

the  man  with  the  horn-rim  glasses  whom 
John  recognized  as  her  director.  They  took 
seats  in  the  tonneau  and  he  shook  hands  with 
the  director  whom  Consuello  introduced  as 
"Mr.  Bonwit."  Heading  the  caravan  of  ma 
chines  their  car  started  out  of  the  driveway. 

UI  wanted  Reggie — Mr.  Gibson — to  come 
with  us,"  she  explained,  "but  he  had  other 
engagements,  something  to  do  with  his  work, 
and  could  not  get  away.  He  promised  to 
join  us  later.  I  am  anxious  to  hear  what 
he  has  been  doing  and  what  you  think  of 
it.  I  know  all  about  his  raid  on  those  places 
in  Spring  street." 

His  part  in  the  raid  with  the  suspicion  it 
directed  against  Gibson  as  an  ally  of  "Gink" 
Cummings  returned  to  him.  Principally  be 
cause  of  the  faith  Consuello  had  in  Gibson 
he  had  been  unable  to  convince  himself  that 
the  commissioner  was  in  league  with  Cum 
mings,  despite  the  arguments  advanced  by 
Brennan  and  the  attitude  taken  by  the  publish 
er  of  his  newspaper,  a  view  that  did  not  reject 
the  possibility  that  Gibson  was  a  masquerader. 

"He  told  me  that  what  you  said  about  news 
paper  men  wondering  why  he  did  not  attack 
'Gink'  Cummings  caused  him  to  decide  to  make 
the  raid,"  she  w7ent  on.  "You  may  not  be 
lieve  it,  but  he  respects  your  judgment  and 


212  SPRING  STREET 

has  a  great  deal  of  admiration  for  you  and 
the  man  who  works  with  you,  Brennan,  isn't 
it?" 

Passing  the  outskirts  of  the  city  the  ma 
chines  took  them  through  a  district  being  built 
up  with  pretty  little  bungalows  of  varied  colors 
and  architecture. 

"I  often  wonder,"  she  said,  "whether  the 
people  who  live  in  these  houses  ever  realize 
what  Mr.  Gibson  is  trying  to  do  for  them. 
They  seem  so  apart  from  the  hurry  and 
scurry  of  life;  they  see  so  little  of  the  evil  he  is 
trying  to  save  them  from.  They  read  of  him, 
perhaps,  and  commend  him  in  their  minds 
for  what  he  is  doing  and  let  it  go  at  that. 
I  don't  suppose  they  ever  feel  they  owe  him  a 
personal  debt  of  gratitude." 

"It  is  a  common  fault  to  hold  aloof  and 
think  little  of  danger  until  it  strikes  home  to 
you,"  John  said.  "And  yet  I  envy  them  for 
what  they  do  not  know,  for  what  they  do 
not  see,  for  their  self-content." 

Leaving  the  city  behind,  the  automobile 
swung  on  to  a  boulevard  leading  toward  the 
hills.  She  explained  to  him  the  purpose  of 
their  trip. 

"It  is  what  we  call  a  'retake,'  "  she  said. 
"The  scenes  we  will  do  today  were  done 
several  weeks  ago,  but  the  photography  did 
not  satisfy  Mr.  Bonwit.  We  will  do  them 


SPRING  STREET  213 

over  again,  resurrecting  the  sweetheart  you 
saw  me  mourning  so  sadly  for  back  on  the 
interior  set.  They  are  the  scenes  in  which 
he  asks  me  to  marry  him  and  in  which  I  plight 
my  troth,  as  the  title  writer  insists  upon  de 
scribing  it." 

"Perhaps  that's  why  Mr.  Gibson  isn't  with 
us,"  suggested  John. 

"It  may  be,"  she  laughed.  "He  saw  the 
original  scenes  played  and  pretended  to  be 
madly  jealous  of  the  leading  man." 

The  "location"  on  which  the  cameras  were 
trained  for  the  scenes  enacted  by  Consuello 
was  idealistic  as  an  outdoor  setting.  Shasta 
daisies,  primroses  and  stalks  of  purple  and 
white  larkspur,  in  riotous  profusion,  gave 
splotches  of  bright  color  that  stood  out 
vividly  against  the  bosky  green.  Stately, 
restful  trees  gave  bounteous  shade.  A  brook, 
tumbling  down  the  hillside,  gurgled  over  clean, 
white  stones  and  sand. 

There  was  a  lengthy  conference  between  the 
photographers  and  Bonwit,  the  director,  rel 
ative  to  the  light  effects.  Oblongs  of  white 
cloth  tacked  on  a  wood  framework,  which 
John  learned  were  used  to  reflect  and  deflect 
the  sun's  rays,  were  shifted  from  one  spot 
to  another  and  back  again  until  the  camera 
men  were  completely  satisfied. 

The  sad-eyed  bass  viol  player  with  his  com- 


214  SPRING  STREET 

panions,  the  violinist  and  the  'cellist,  occupied 
folding  chairs  several  yards  to  the  right  of  the 
cameras,  where  they  were  protected  from 
the  sun  in  the  shade  of  a  tree.  "John  J. 
Silence,"  whom  John  discovered  was  an  as 
sistant  director,  made  countless  trips  to  and 
from  the  automobiles  for  things  that  every 
one  seemed  to  have  forgotten  and  left  in  the 
machines. 

John  had  never  seen  such  precaution  ex 
ercised.  It  was  fully  an  hour  before  Con- 
suello  and  her  sweetheart  in  the  photoplay  be 
gan  rehearsing.  He  was  a  young  fellow,  with 
smooth  black  hair  that  John  considered  al 
most  as  perfect  as  that  of  Gibson,  which  had 
irritated  him  when  he  first  met  the  police  com 
missioner.  And,  as  John  had  also  thought 
of  Gibson,  the  actor  playing  opposite  Con- 
suello  was  too  immaculate. 

First,  Consuello  and  the  actor  came  slowly 
toward  the  cameras,  hand  in  hand,  a  typical 
pair  of  straying  lovers,  so  affected  by  each 
other's  presence  that  they  spoke  only  with  their 
eyes,  sidelong  glances  of  ardent  devotion. 
Then  they  stood  still,  facing  each  other,  their 
profiles  toward  the  cameras,  he  holding  her 
hands  down  to  her  sides,  telling  her  of  his 
love  for  her  while  she  hung  her  head.  As 
he  finished  she  lifted  her  face,  smiled,  and  he 
clasped  her  to  his  breast,  looking  up  as  if  he 


SPRING  STREET  215 

was  thanking  his  Creator  for  giving  her  to 
him. 

They  held  that  pose  for  what  John  thought 
was  an  unnecessarily  long  time,  and  that  was 
all  of  the  first  scene.  John  was  happy  to  note, 
for  a  reason  he  neglected  to  define,  even  to 
himself,  that  Consuello  seemed  relieved  as  she 
drew  back  from  the  actor's  arms.  They  re 
hearsed  it  a  dozen  times  before  Bonwit  and  the 
cameramen  decided  it  could  be  done  no  better 
and  then  the  cameras  clicked. 

Next  there  was  a  pretty  little  scene,  without 
much  action,  in  which  Consuello  and  her 
"sweetheart"  were  seated  beside  each  other 
with  a  background  of  flowers.  John  deduced 
that  obstacles  had  evidently  risen  to  the  mar 
riage,  as  the  "conversation"  was  serious  and 
inclined  to  be  tearful.  During  this  scene  the 
three-piece  orchestra,  by  this  time  coatless  and 
collarless,  played  the  most  plaintively  sad 
piece,  John  thought,  that  he  had  ever  heard. 
The  bass  viol  player's  face  was  almost  funereal 
as  he  gazed  abstractedly  up  into  the  branches 
of  the  tree  above  him.  The  scene  ended  with 
the  actor  looking  soulfully  into  the  eyes  of  his 
betrothed. 

When  scene  number  two  had  been  photo 
graphed,  "John  J.  Silence"  amazed  John  by 
suddenly  shouting  "Eats!"  and  dashing  to 
ward  the  automobiles,  A  large  wicker  ham- 


216  SPRING  STREET 

per  was  lifted  from  one  of  the  cars  and  car 
ried  to  a  clear  space  near  the  cameras.  Con- 
suello  seated  herself  in  a  canvas  chair  near 
John,  who  sat  cross-legged  at  her  feet.  They 
were  apart  from  the  others,  who  formed 
a  group  under  another  tree.  From  the  hamper 
"John  J.  Silence"  brought  them  two  small 
baskets,  covered  with  snow-white  napkins,  con 
taining  sandwiches,  a  piece  of  pie,  a  slice  of 
cake,  ripe  olives,  salted  almonds  and  paper 
cups,  which,  at  Consuello's  suggestion,  John 
filled  with  water  from  the  stream. 

UI  don't  blame  him,"  remarked  John  as 
they  settled  down  to  enjoy  the  basket  luncheon. 

"Who?" 

"Gibson,"  he  said. 

"For  what?" 

"For  hating  that  make-believe  sweetheart  of 
yours,"  he  answered. 

"But  he  is  only — only  as  you  said — make- 
believe,"  she  said.  "He  has  the  sweetest  little 
wife  and  two  of  the  darlingest  children  you 
ever  saw.  He  probably  is  thinking  of  them 
while  he's  holding  me  in  his  arms  and  pledg 
ing  undying  love.  Whenever  he  has  to  shea 
tears  he  thinks  of  the  time  the  baby  had 
pneumonia  and  nearly  died." 

"Make-believe,"  he  repeated.  "My  friend 
Brennan — whom  Gibson  spoke  to  you  of- — 
says  that  life  is  all  make-believe;  that  we  all 


SPRING  STREET  217 

play  at  make-believe — some  of  us  rightfully, 
but  most  of  us  wrongfully." 

Subconsciously  he  thought  of  Brennan's  in 
dictment  of  Gibson  as  a  fraud  and  a  dishon 
est  "make-believe,"  a  consummate  actor  in  the 
role  of  a  villain  in  real  life. 

"I'm  often  inclined  to  believe  it,"  she  said 
slowly.  "Perhaps  that's  why  life  is  some 
times  a  huge  joke  and  sometimes  nothing  but 
sadness  and  disillusionment.  We  play  our 
little  game  of  make-believe  and  strut  around 
proudly,  making  ourselves,  as  well  as  others, 
think  that  we  amount  to  something  and  then 
comes  death,  like  a  curtain;  the  footlights  go 
out  and  where  are  we?  Who  thinks  of  us 
then?" 

"Only  the  few  who  have  loved  us  with  all 
our  faults  and  vain  deceit  and  make-believe," 
he  replied. 

A  series  of  "close-ups,"  were  photographed 
after  lunch.  Consuello  went  into  the  actor's 
embrace  again  to  permit  a  "close-up"  of  his 
fervent  expression  of  love  and  thankfulness 
as  he  looked  upward  to  the  sky.  John  didn't 
mind  the  repetition  of  this  scene.  He  thought 
of  the  actor's  wife  and  two  babies,  especially 
the  one  who  was  his  father's  "tear  provoker." 
There  was  another  in  which  Consuello,  her 
head  inclined,  admired  the  fresh  crisp  beauty 
of  a  bouquet  of  daisies.  She  lifted  her  face 


218  SPRING  STREET 

to  gaze  with  a  faraway  look  past  the  cameras, 
apparently  registering  longing  for  her  absent 
sweetheart.  John  followed. her  gaze  and  dis 
covered  it  was  fixed  on  the  woebegone  coun 
tenance  of  the  bass  viol  player,  whose  mel 
ancholy  seemed  to  be  increased  by  his  dim 
realization  that  he  was  the  object  on  which 
she  concentrated  in  her  abstract  mood. 

In  a  third  "close-up"  the  actor  registered 
the  deepness  of  his  love  by  thrusting  his  chin 
forward  and  staring  unblinkingly  over  John's 
head.  It  was  an  effective  piece  of  facial  ex 
pression,  John  thought,  as  the  actor's  eyes 
were  as  soft  as  a  fawn's.  Photographs  of 
Richard  Barthelmess  and  John  Barrymore  in 
similar  poses  came  back  into  John's  mind. 

John  and  Consuello  were  beside  each  other 
again  on  the  return  trip  to  the  studio. 

"I  expect  Reggie  will  be  there  waiting  for 
us,"  she  said.  uWe  have  a  dinner  engagement 
and  I  will  have  to  dress  at  the  studio.  I'm 
sorry  that  he  and  you  and  I  cannot  have  din 
ner  together,  we  have  so  much  to  talk  about." 

"You  have  been  kind  enough,"  he  said.  "I 
have  enjoyed  myself  thoroughly  and  I  would 
be  intruding  if  I  occupied  any  more  of  your 
time." 

"Intruding?"  she  repeated,  with  a  rising  in 
flection  of  her  voice.  "Why,  it  was  kind  of 
you  to  be  with  me." 


SPRING  STREET  219 

"But  you  must  remember — "  he  began. 

"Remember?" 

"Yes,  remember  there  is  someone  else  who 
should  be  considered." 

"Oh,  Reggie's  glad  that  he  has  a  substitute 
for  trips  like  this  and  I've  told  you  that  he 
respects  your  judgment,"  she  said. 

Gibson  was  in  his  two-seated  car  at  the  en 
trance  to  the  studio  when  they  arrived.  They 
left  their  machines  at  the  gateway  to  meet 
him. 

"Again?"  he  asked  as  they  met.  "You  two 
certainly  find  each  other  interesting." 

He  smiled  as  he  spoke,  but  a  queer  feeling 
went  through  John  as  he  realized  that  Con- 
suello  had  failed  to  tell  Gibson  that  she  had 
invited  him  to  be  with  her. 

"I'm  acquainting  Mr.  Gallant  with  the  pro 
cess  of  picture  making,"  Consuello  said.  How 
ever  she  received  Gibson's  salutatory  remark 
she  gave  no  hint  of  her  feeling  in  the  tone  of 
her  voice. 

"When  are  you  going  to  show  her  through 
a  newspaper  office,  Gallant?"  Gibson  was  still 
smiling.  Consuello  replied  before  John  could 
speak. 

"Whenever  you  and  I  can  find  time,  I'm 
sure,"  she  said.  "You'll  excuse  me  for  a 
moment;  I  must  hurry  along  so  I  won't  keep 


220  SPRING  STREET 

you  waiting  long,  Reggie.  And  Mr.  Gallant, 
I'll  arrange  for  a  car  to  take  you  home." 

She  hurried  away,  skipping  toward  the 
dressing  room  building.  Unconscious  of  each 
other,  Gibson  and  Gallant  watched  her  until 
she  disappeared  from  their  sight.  When  they 
turned  toward  each  other  simultaneously,  John 
had  a  peculiarly  embarrassed  feeling,  as  if  he 
had  been  caught  doing  something  which  he  had 
no  right  to  do. 

Gibson's  smile  was  confusing. 

"A  wonderful,  wonderful  girl,"  he  said, 
drawing  a  finely  embossed  cigaret  case. 

"Yes,"  said  John,  instinctively  apprehensive 
of  making  a  more  enthusiastic  concurrence. 

"A  whole-hearted,  dear,  unsuspecting  girl," 
said  Gibson,  without  offering  the  cigaret  case 
to  John. 

uYes." 

"A  girl  who  makes  a  friend  of  everyone  she 


meets." 


Wasn't  that  "everyone"  emphasized  a  trifle? 

"A  girl  a  man  would  do  almost  anything 
for."  He  was  still  smiling. 

"Yes." 

"By  the  way,  Gallant,  has  she  told  you  we 
are  engaged  to  be  married?" 

John  hesitated  and  chose  to  keep  the  confi 
dence  she  had  placed  in  him. 

"No,"  he  said.     "You  ARE  to  be  congratu- 


SPRING  STREET  221 

lated."  He  had  a  secret  satisfaction  in  stress 
ing  the  "are." 

Gibson  lighted  his  cigarette. 

"I  just  thought  I'd  tell  you,"  he  said  and 
John  thought —  or  was  it  his  imagination? — 
that  Gibson's  set  smile  flattened  a  little  at  the 
corners. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

T  TNDER  Brennan's  patient  tutelage  John 
^  progressed  rapidly,  learning  thoroughly 
the  rudiments  of  newspaper  reporting  in  its 
two  branches,  news  gathering  and  writing.  P. 
Q.  occasionally  gave  advice  which  John  knew 
came  from  a  man  who  took  a  secret  pride  in 
supervising  the  remarkable  metamorphosis  of 
a  "cub"  into  a  well  trained  reporter.  It  was 
the  gossip  of  newspaper  workers  that  P.  Q. 
excelled  in  the  training  of  his  reporters  whom 
he  handled  with  the  tact  of  a  psychologist  and 
the  care  of  a  manager  of  a  baseball  team  for 
his  players.  Nothing  gave  him  more  pleasure 
than  to  develop  a  "cub"  into  a  star  and  there 
were  dozens  of  star  men  throughout  the  coun 
try  whom  he  brought  to  the  top  and  who  still 
thought  him  the  "greatest  of  them  all." 

Brennan  was  one  of  the  star  men  who  broke 
into  newspaper  work  under  P.  Q.  Between  P. 
Q.  and  his  star  reporter  there  was  a  peculiar 
relationship  which  John  studied  with  interest. 
When  Brennan  performed  some  especially 
clever  piece  of  work  the  city  editor  treated 
him  as  though  it  was  unnecessary  for  him  to 
give  any  praise  or  commendation.  When 
Brennan  disappointed  him,  which  was  seldom, 


SPRING  STREET  223 

P.  Q.  would  berate  him  with  the  same  caustic 
fervor  that  lashed  a  stupid,  thick-headed  re 
porter  to  a  point  of  self-abnegation  that  gave 
him  thoughts  of  suicide  as  the  only  way  out 
of  his  misery. 

The  praise  Brennan  received  from  P.  Q. 
came  to  him  in  a  roundabout  way  and  the  star 
reporter  drank  it  in  as  eagerly  as  a  "cub," 
knowing  as  he  did  it  that  it  was  a  "master" 
who  praised.  P.  Q.  would  summon  some  of 
fending  reporter  to  his  desk  and  after  scolding 
him  would  laud  Brennan  to  the  skies. 

"If  you  had  only  one-tenth  the  sense  that 
Brennan  has  there  might  be  some  hope  for 
you,"  the  city  editor  would  say.  "Brennan  is 
a  real  newspaper  man,  a  real  reporter.  I 
wouldn't  trade  him  for  any  dozen  men  in  the 
country.  Watch  Brennan,  read  the  stuff  he 
writes  and  study  the  way  he  does  things  if  you 
want  to  become  a  reporter." 

These  words,  P.  Q.  knew,  would  get  back 
to  Brennan,  who  would  cross-examine  the  re 
porter  to  get  every  word  of  the  city  editor's 
commendation.  Yet  between  them,  except  for 
rare  occasions  when  they  went  out  to  lunch  to 
gether,  there  was  a  "strictly  business"  attitude 
that  was  deceiving.  Brennan's  loyalty  to  P. 
Q.  was  only  rivaled  by  the  city  editor's  covert 
admiration  for  him  as  a  reporter.  Several 
times  John  overheard  wordy  altercations  be- 


224  SPRING  STREET 

tween  P.  Q.  and  Brennan  in  which  the  city 
editor  would  threaten  to  discharge  him  and 
Brennan  would  reply  with  a  threat  to  resign, 
but  nothing  ever  came  of  these  quarrels  and 
they  were  forgotten  within  an  hour  after  they 
occurred. 

From  Brennan  John  received  precious  bits 
of  advice. 

"Never  argue  with  a  city  editor,"  Brennan 
warned  him.  "It's  useless.  Don't  ever,  no 
matter  how  friendly  he  is,  get  familiar  with 
one  of  them.  It's  ruinous." 

Gradually  John  learned  Brennan's  story. 
An  Englishman  by  birth  and  a  university  man, 
Brennan  was  a  rancher  in  Alberta  for  a  year 
before  he  joined  the  Royal  Northwest  Mounted 
Police.  He  had  been  everywhere  and  seen 
everything.  He  became  a  reporter  under  P. 
Q.  in  a  Middle  West  city,  and  his  first  training 
received,  he  became  restless  again.  He  went 
to  Central  America  to  participate  in  a  revolu 
tion  and  then  to  the  South  Sea  islands.  For 
a  time  he  had  been  in  China,  Japan  and  India, 
and  Kipling's  verse  was  given  its  proper  swing 
when  he  recited  it.  He  was  a  fast,  hard  boxer 
and  John  had  to  extend  himself  to  hold  his 
own  when  they  sparred  for  exercise  at  Blake's 
gymnasium. 

"Something  of  a  soldier;  something  of  a 
dreamer;  something  of  a  poet — but  only  a 


SPRING  STREET  225 

newspaper  man,"  he  once  described  himself, 
adding  a  few  seconds  later,  "Oh,  forget  it," 
as  though  he  was  ashamed  to  soliloquize  about 
himself. 

To  John  he  was  unstinted  in  his  laudation 
of  P.  Q.,  whose  eccentricities  he  knew  so  well. 

"P.  Q.  has  always  believed  that  a  hungry 
reporter  is  the  best  reporter,"  Brennan  told 
John.  "He  swears  that  a  reporter  works  twice 
as  well  when  he  is  hungry  as  when  he  is  well 
fed.  He  says  a  person  can't  help  but  become 
somewhat  soggy  mentally  when  his  stomach  is 
full,  while  an  empty  stomach  makes  a  keen 
brain.  That's  why  he  never  has  breakfast 
until  after  the  first  edition  is  away.  He  prac 
tices  what  he  preaches." 

Assigned  to  work  as  Brennan's  "leg  man," 
the  newspaper  term  for  understudy,  John  be 
came  acquainted  with  the  men  in  Los  Angeles 
who  appear  almost  daily  in  the  news.  He  met 
Le  Compte  Davis,  Paul  Schenck,  Joe  Ford, 
Dick  Kittrelle,  Al  MacDonald,  W.  I.  Gilbert, 
Frank  Dominguez  and  Jud  Rush  among  the 
lawyers;  the  district  attorney  and  his  staff  of 
deputies;  "Bud"  Hill,  the  county  counsel;  po 
lice  detectives,  deputy  sheriffs,  private  detec 
tives,  city  and  county  officials,  federal  agents 
and  a  host  of  others,  including  such  pictur 
esque  characters  as  Martin  Aguirre,  court  bai 
liff,  former  sheriff  and  one-time  warden  of  San 


226  SPRING  STREET 

Quentin;  Charlie  Sebastian,  whom  the  re 
porters  declared  unanimously  was  a  capable 
chief  of  police,  despite  his  faults;  Billy  Wong, 
representing  the  Bing  Kong  Tong  of  China 
town,  and  "Cap"  Gillis,  Chinatown  "lookout" 
and  undying  friend  of  the  police  reporters. 

Le  Compte  Davis  they  met  in  his  turret-like 
office  room  in  the  Bryson  block,  examining  a 
tattered  book  under  a  microscope.  He  learned 
that  Davis  had  a  private  library  of  more  than 
8,000  volumes  and  was  one  of  the  rare  old 
book  lovers  of  the  city.  His  office  room  was 
stacked  with  books  he  had  purchased,  several 
of  which  were  to  be  sent  to  England  to  be 
handsomely  bound  by  hand.  On  the  wall  were 
several  oil  paintings,  one  of  which  Davis 
bought  at  an  auction  for  $75  and  which  he 
had  been  offered  more  than  $1,000  for. 

"Sometimes  Le  Compte  Davis  disappears  in 
the  middle  of  a  busy  day  and  scouts  are  sent 
out  to  look  for  him,"  Brennan  told  him.  "In 
variably  they  find  him  at  some  bookstore,  paw 
ing  over  a  recent  purchase  of  old^books,  or  in 
some  second-hand  store  where  he  picks  up 
rare  and  costly  things  for  a  few  dollars. 

"He's  such  a  shark  on  books  that  whenever 
he  goes  into  a  bookstore  the  proprietor  details 
a  clerk  to  follow  him  around.  When  Le 
Compte  takes  a  book  from  a  shelf,  examines  it 
and  returns  it  to  its  place,  the  clerk  takes  the 


SPRING  STREET  227 

book  down  and  immediately  doubles  the  price 
of  it. 

"He  would  rather  get  some  old  book  that's 
listed  in  his  catalogue  as  valuable  for  a  few 
cents  than  win  the  most  important  law  case." 

The  offices  of  Davis  and  his  partner,  Jud 
Rush,  who  was  once  a  cowboy  in  California, 
were  picturesque  in  themselves  because  of  the 
furnishings,  as  quaint  and  dusty  as  those  pic 
tured  by  Dickens.  The  furniture  was  mid- 
Victorian,  the  rugs  and  carpets  worn  by  the 
feet  of  countless  clients,  and  a  musty  odor  of 
old  books  and  papers  permeated  the  air.  It 
was  like  stepping  back  fifty  years  to  enter  the 
waiting  room. 

"I  don't  know  whether  Le  Compte  realizes 
it,"  Brennan  said,  "but  it's  good  psychology 
for  him  to  keep  his  office  as  it  is.  It  suggests 
stability,  dignity,  soundness.  A  person  feels 
like  he  is  entering  the  office  of  secure,  reliable, 
established  lawyers  when  he  comes  in  here.  It 
has  twice  the  effect  of  entering  a  bright,  shiny, 
new  office,  smelling  of  varnish  and  neatly 
kept." 

Frequently  Brennan  and  John  lunched  with 
Paul  Schenck  and  his  partner,  Dick  Kittrelle, 
at  a  little  eating  place  in  West  Second  street 
frequented  by  lawyers,  newspaper  men,  police 
officers,  deputy  sheriffs  and  others  who  were 
thrown  into  contact  daily  in  the  making  and 


228  SPRING  STREET 

gathering  of  news.  There  Schenck  would  dis 
course  on  psychiatry  and  psychology,  his  two 
hobbies,  talking  of  "phobias"  and  "complexes'1 
and  maintaining  that  everyone  in  the  eyes  of 
others  has  a  touch  of  insanity. 

"I  believe,  with  Le  Compte  Davis,  that  the 
two  things  that  a  successful  lawyer  must  have 
are  tact  and  an  instinctive  knowledge  of  psy 
chology,"  Schenck  would  tell  them. 

They  were  interesting  days  for  John.  He 
heard  the  "inside"  stones  of  famous  murder 
cases,  municipal  upheavals,  political  battles, 
celebrated  trials  and  notable  "beats"  scored  by 
reporters  in  the  history  of  newspaper  work  in 
Los  Angeles.  He  saw  behind  the  scenes  and 
what  he  learned  made  a  distinct  impression  on 
his  receptive  brain.  He  was  surprised  to  find 
that  most  of  those  he  met,  whom  Brennan 
described  as  the  "head-line  boys,"  shared  Bren- 
nan's  skeptical  viewpoint,  rejoicing  as  he  did 
when  their  doubts  were  overcome  and  their 
faith  in  their  fellow  men  re-established. 

These  men  differed  on  the  question  of  Gib 
son's  sincerity  in  his  "clean  up"  crusade.  Some 
of  them  believed  him  to  be  an  altruist,  while 
others,  without  evidence  to  support  their  views, 
regarded  him  with  suspicion.  The  opinion  of 
the  skeptics  was  that  Gibson  was  either  a  plain 
"glory-seeker"  or,  despite  his  denials  of  the 
reports  to  that  effect,  a  potential  candidate  for 
mayor. 


SPRING  STREET  229 

"He  knows  that  no  man  can  become  mayor 
of  Los  Angeles  unless  he  has  the  support  of  re 
spectable  citizenry,  represented  by  the  churches 
and  business  and  civic  welfare  associations,  as 
well  as  the  women's  clubs,"  one  of  them  said. 
"After  he  is  elected  mayor  he  may  break  his 
pledges  to  these  organizations,  but  as  soon  as 
he  does  he's  through." 

Late  one  afternoon,  two  weeks  after  his 
last  meeting  with  Consuello  and  Gibson,  Bren- 
nan  and  John  were  gossiping  at  the  office,  spec 
ulating  on  Gibson's  next  move. 

"He'll  pull  another  stunt  soon,"  Brennan 
declared.  "When  he  does  it's  up  to  us  to  dig 
in  and  find  out  what's  behind  it.  If  we  can  get 
a  little  more  evidence  like  that  you  stumbled 
on  to  when  he  raided  the  Spring  street  book 
makers,  we'll  be  on  the  trail  of  the  biggest 
story  that's  broken  here  in  years." 

"Isn't  there  a  chance  that  he's  straight?" 
asked  John,  still  unable  to  believe  that  the 
man  Consuello  had  such  unfailing  faith  in  was 
the  man  Brennan  suspected  him  to  be. 

"If  he  is  it  won't  be  the  first  time  I've  been 
wrong,"  said  Brennan,  "but  it  will  be  the  big 
gest  jolt  I  ever  got,  let  me  tell  you  that." 
*          *          * 

They  received  no  word  from  Murphy  until 
nearly  a  month  after  Gibson's  spectacular 
Spring  street  raid.  He  appeared  at  the  office 


230  SPRING  STREET 

late  one  afternoon  with  the  information  that 
he  had  "hot  stuff"  concerning  "Gink"  Cum- 
mings. 

He  declared  that  Cummings  had  ordered 
that  all  crime  stop  immediately  in  the  city. 

"Da  'Gink'  has  passed  out  da  word  dat  da 
boys  gotta  lay  off,"  said  Murphy.  "He  gives 
orders  dat  there's  to  be  no  rough  stuff  until 
he  says  so." 

"You  mean  that  the  'Gink'  is  closing  up  the 
town?"  asked  Brennan. 

"Dat's  what  I  say,"  replied  Murphy.  "He 
says  there  ain't  to  be  no  stick-ups,  no  gamblin', 
no  bootleggin',  no  pocket  pickin',  no  house 
jobs,  no  bunko  stuff,  no  nothin'  and  dat  goes. 
Da  first  bird  dat  tries  workin'  is  gonna  be  run 
outa  town,  see?" 

"Where  do  you  pick  up  that  information, 
Murphy?"  Brennan  asked. 

"Well,  da  'Gink'  don't  tell  me  poisonally, 
see?  But  I  gets  it  straight,  see?  Da  stick- 
ups,  da  sure-thing  guys,  da  dips,  everybody 
gets  orders  to  lay  off,  see?" 

Brennan  whistled  softly. 

"What's  the  'Gink'  got  up  his  sleeve  now, 
I  wonder?"  he  said. 

"Soich  me,"  said  Murphy. 

"Are  they  obeying  the  'Gink's'  orders?" 

"I'll  say  they  are!"  asserted  Murphy.  "All 
the  gamblin'  places  are  closed  and  everybody 


SPRING  STREET  231 

stopped  doin'  business,  see?  Even  da  girls 
is  behavin'  and  only  enough  dope  to  keep  da 
boys  goin'  bein'  peddled,  see?" 

"I  see,!'  said  Brennan,  "but  it's  got  me.  I 
can't  figure  out  what  his  game  is." 

With  P.  Q.  approving  the  cashier's  voucher 
for  the  money,  Murphy  was  paid  $25  for  the 
information  he  gave  Brennan  and  John,  who 
told  him  to  watch  the  situation  in  Spring  street 
closely  and  report  to  them  often. 

The  information  furnished  by  Murphy  that 
"Gink"  Cummings  had  ordered  that  crime  be 
stopped  in  Los  Angeles  was  substantiated  by 
the  developments  of  the  following  week.  The 
crime  wave  that  had  been  sweeping  the  city, 
as  it  had  the  nation,  came  to  an  abrupt  halt. 
During  the  week  only  one  holdup  was  reported 
to  the  police  and  prohibition  officers  were  sur 
prised  to  find  that  bootleggers  had  stopped 
their  work.  There  were  no  burglaries,  gam 
bling,  picking  of  pockets,  bunko  swindling  or 
handbook  betting.  The  traffic  in  narcotics, 
police  and  federal  officers  reported,  was  the 
lowest  in  years. 

Police  Chief  Sweeney  and  the  mayor  were 
baffled  by  the  sudden  stop  of  crime  and  frankly 
admitted  their  bewilderment  to  Brennan  and 
John. 

"It's  beyond  me,"  said  the  mayor.  "All 
wre  can  do  is  wait  and  see  what  happens.  They 


232  SPRING  STREET 

are  up  to  something  big,  that's  a  certainty,  but 
I  can't  figure  it  out." 

Then,  after  peace  and  quiet  had  reigned  in 
the  city  for  ten  days,  Gibson  issued  a  state 
ment  claiming  that  he  and  the  forces  support 
ing  him,  including  his  investigators  and  detec 
tives,  had  done  what  the  mayor  and  Chief 
Sweeney  were  unable  to  do,  stopped  crime  in 
Los  Angeles. 

"I  call  the  attention  of  the  citizens  of  Los 
Angeles  to  the  fact  that  within  the  past  ten 
days  there  has  been  less  crime  in  the  city  than 
in  years,"  Gibson's  statement  read.  "There 
has  been  but  one  holdup,  no  burglaries,  no 
violence,  no  banditry  and  no  open  gambling, 
bootlegging,  thievery  or  trafficking  in  narco 
tics. 

"My  investigators  report  that  the  lid  is 
down  tight,  solely  and  exclusively  because 
'Gink'  Cummings,  the  notorious  boss  of  the 
underworld,  and  his  gang  of  crooks  know  that 
I  mean  business  and  that  those  behind  me  are 
in  the  fight  to  a  finish  for  a  clean  city. 

"I  am  gratified,  of  course,  to  find  that  the 
crusade  is  having  its  effect  and  that  Los  Ange 
les  is  beginning  to  enjoy  the  protection  to 
which  it  is  entitled,  although  the  entire  situa 
tion  discloses  the  deplorable  state  of  ineffi 
ciency  in  the  police  department  and  the  fail- 


SPRING  STREET  233 

ure  of  Chief  Sweeney  and  the  mayor  to  en 
force  the  law." 

Brennan  smiled  broadly  when  he  read  the 
Commissioner's  latest  proclamation. 

"That  modest,  shrinking  violet  we  hear  of 
so  often  is  a  shrieking  braggart  alongside  of 
our  grand  young  crusader,"  he  remarked. 
"What  a  dumb-bell  I  was  not  to  have  seen 
what  was  coming!" 

John  realized  that  Brennan  believed  he  had 
discovered  the  reason  for  "Gink"  Cummings' 
order  to  close  the  city  to  crime  and  unlawful 
ness. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"It's  a  mighty  slick  trick,"  explained  the 
star  reporter.  "Don't  you  see  how  it  works? 
Cummings,  wanting  everyone  to  believe  Gib 
son  really  has  the  ability  to  close  up  the  town, 
gives  orders  for  the  bandits  and  crooks  to 
'lay  off,'  as  Murphy  put  it.  Then  Gibson 
comes  out  and  claims  credit  for  closing  up  the 
city.  The  'Gink'  and  Gibson  planned  this 
stunt  together;  otherwise,  how  did  Murphy 
happen  to  find  out  about  it?  And  what  was 
the  'Gink's'  reason  for  closing  the  town  if  it 
wasn't  to  give  Gibson  a  chance  to  claim  the 
credit?" 

"Still,  there's  a  chance  that  it  was  only  a 
coincidence,  that  the  'Gink'  had  some  other 


234  SPRING  STREET 

reason  to  call  his  men  off  and  that  Gibson, 
believing  that  he  really  had  frightened  Cum- 
mings  and  his  gang,  took  advantage  of  an  op 
portunity  and  claimed  the  credit  for  it,"  sug 
gested  John. 

Brennan  inhaled  deeply  on  his  cigaret  be 
fore  answering. 

"Gallant,"  he  said,  uyou  really  don't  think 
it  happened  that  way,  do  you?  Don't  let  your 
credulousness  put  you  on  the  wrong  track. 
Who  do  you  suppose  it  was  who  told  Gibson's 
investigators  that  it  was  his  crusade  that  was 
closing  up  the  town?  Remember,  the  'Gink' 
is  the  mayor's  enemy  and  he  isn't  going  to  do 
anything  unless  it's  against  the  mayor.  He 
simply  passed  out  the  word  he  was  afraid  of 
Gibson  to  give  Gibson  a  chance  to  claim  the 
glory." 

The  mayor  and  Sweeney,  as  well  as  P.  Q., 
who  knew  that  Murphy  had  given  Brennan 
and  John  advance  information  regarding  the 
ceasing  of  crime,  agreed  with  Brennan  that 
Gibson  and  the  "Gink"  had  framed  the  whole 
affair. 

Gibson's  announcement  that  the  ebb  of  the 
crime  wave  was  the  result  of  his  crusade 
brought  renewed  expressions  of  commendation 
and  pledges  of  support  from  organizations 
and  individuals  lined  up  behind  him.  Churches, 
women's  clubs,  civic  and  business  organiza- 


SPRING  STREET  235 

tions,  groups  of  citizens  and  prominent  men 
and  women  of  the  city  were  outspoken  in  their 
praise  of  the  police  commissioner,  hailing  him 
as  the  "man  of  the  hour."  A  well  known 
minister  addressed  a  mass  meeting  at  his 
church,  his  subject  being  "Police  Commissioner 
Gibson's  Remarkable  Success  and  the  Disgrace 
of  Having  a  Mayor  Who  Fails  to  Do  His 
Duty."  Other  preachers  delivered  sermons 
extolling  Gibson,  one  of  the  sermons  being  ad 
vertised  as  "A  Modern  Crusader  Against 
Graft,  Booze,  Boodle  and  Sin." 

Accepting  every  invitation,  Gibson  spoke 
at  churches,  mass  meetings,  clubs  and  lunch 
eons  of  business  men's  organizations.  Bren- 
nan  declared  that  the  commissioner  was  show 
ing  signs  of  weakening  on  his  vow  that  he 
would  not  become  a  candidate  for  mayor  un 
der  any  circumstances. 

"You  mark  my  words,"  he  said  to  John. 
"Some  of  these  days  Gibson  will  announce 
himself  as  a  candidate.  He'll  say  that  he  has 
been  persuaded  that  he  would  be  failing  to 
perform  his  full  duty  unless  he  heeded  the  call. 
He'll  excuse  himself  from  his  stand  that  he 
had  no  political  ambitions  by  saying  that  when 
he  undertook  his  crusade  he  had  no  thought 
of  ever  becoming  a  candidate." 

"What  about  the  $1,000  he  told  us  he'd  give 
to  charity  the  moment  he  announced  himself 


236  SPRING  STREET 

as  a  candidate  for  any  public  office?"  asked 
John. 

"We'll  see  that  he  turns  it  over  to  the  Chil 
dren's  hospital  if  it's  the  last  thing  we  do," 
said  Brennan,  smiling. 

At  a  moment  when  he  was  the  most  con 
spicuous  man  in  the  city,  Gibson  disappeared. 
Brennan  and  John  joined  the  reporters  of 
other  Los  Angeles  newspapers  in  a  night  and 
day  search  for  the  missing  commissioner,  but, 
as  it  had  been  when  Gibson  disappeared  before 
he  foiled  "Red  Mike"  in  his  attempted  wreck 
of  the  "Lark,"  no  trace  of  him  could  be  found. 

Gibson  had  not  been  missing  for  more  than 
twenty-four  hours  before  a  tidal  wave  of  crime 
swept  the  city.  In  a  single  night  there  were 
a  score  of  robberies,  holdups,  burglaries  and 
bandit  raids.  The  gamblers  and  handbook 
agents  resumed  their  business,  women  were  at 
tacked  on  the  streets,  bootleg  liquor  flowed 
like  a  river  and  pickpockets  victimized  a  dozen 
men  and  women.  The  sudden  resumption  of 
unlawfulness,  far  more  severe  than  it  had  ever 
been,  caught  the  police  unprepared  and  only 
a  few  arrests  were  made. 

Brennan  and  John  sought  out  Murphy. 

"Da  'Gink'  has  canceled  his  orders  and  told 
da  boys  to  go  to  it  strong,"  Murphy  told  them. 
"He  gave  da  word  da  day  after  this  bird  Gib 
son  ducks  out." 


SPRING  STREET  237 

"Two  and  two  make  four,"  commented 
Brennan.  "Gibson  goes  out  of  town  and  Cum- 
mings  gives  orders  to  his  gang  to  open  up. 
Another  slick  trick.  Gibson  will  come  back  in 
a  few  days  and  the  'Gink'  will  call  them  off 
again.  Result,  the  people  will  believe  that 
Gibson  is  the  only  man  to  keep  the  lid  down 
in  Los  Angeles,  that  as  soon  as  he  leaves  crime 
begins  and  as  soon  as  he  returns  it  stops.  Oh, 
what  a  smart  pair  they  are!" 

John  took  time  to  analyze  the  situation  and 
decided  that  the  coordination  of  the  moves  of 
Gibson  and  "Gink"  Cummings  was  more  than 
a  series  of  coincidences.  He  accepted,  for  the 
first  time  without  reservation  or  qualification, 
the  theory  that  there  was  an  alliance  between 
the  commissioner  and  the  underworld  boss. 
The  realization  shocked  him  and  he  felt  a 
hate  for  Gibson,  the  deceiver,  surge  through 
him.  But  he  knew  that  this  hate  was  engen 
dered  more  by  the  fact  that  Gibson  was  mis 
leading  Consuello  than  that  he  was  a  political 
Judas,  betraying  his  city  for  "Gink"  Cum 
mings'  stolen  silver. 

In  the  midst  of  the  excitement  caused  by 
Gibson's  disappearance  and  the  outbreak  of 
crime,  while  fears  were  being  expressed  in 
some  quarters  that  the  commissioner  had  met 
with  foul  play  at  the  hands  of  Cummings' 
"bashers,"  John  heard  from  Consuello. 


CHAPTER  XV 

f  I  SHEY  had  luncheon  together  in  a  cozy 
"••  booth  of  a  sweet  shop  in  Broadway. 
Consuello  accepted  his  invitation  to  luncheon 
when  she  telephoned  to  him  that  she  was 
downtown  and  wished  to  see  him.  Her  first 
question  over  the  phone  was  whether  John  had 
learned  anything  concerning  Gibson's  disap 
pearance. 

"I'm  downtown  for  an  hour  or  so  and 
thought  you  might  have  heard  something  about 
Mr.  Gibson,"  she  said. 

To  P.  Q.  he  explained  that  he  might  be 
away  from  the  office  for  lunch  longer  than 
usual. 

"An  angle  concerning  Gibson's  disappear 
ance  that  may  develop  something,"  he  said, 
hoping  it  would  be  sufficient. 

"What  is  it?"  demanded  the  city  editor. 

"Well,  Miss  Carrillo — you  remember — Gib 
son's  friend — called  me  and  I  invited  her  to 
have  lunch  with  me,"  John  answered. 

"Hop  to  it,"  said  P.  Q. 

Consuello  was  in  sport  costume,  silk  knit 
jacket,  saucy  white  hat,  white  skirt,  shoes  and 
hose;  a  trim,  dainty  figure,  cool  and  refreshing. 
He  had  a  curious  feeling  that  their  meeting 
was  somewhat  clandestine. 


SPRING  STREET  239 

"I  thought  you  knew  where  Gibson  went, 
but  I  refrained  from  calling  you  to  ask,"  John 
said  after  they  were  seated  in  the  booth. 

"Why  didn't  you?" 

"I  didn't  want  you  to  become  involved  in 
this — business."  He  almost  said,  "This  mess." 

"And  why  not?" 

"If  I  had  called  you  and  you  had  told  me 
where  Gibson  was,  the  other  reporters  would 
not  rest  until  they  found  out  my  source  of  in 
formation  and  you  would  be  brought  into  the 
whole  affair,"  he  explained. 

"I  understand,"  she  said.  "Truly,  though, 
I  am  beginning  to  worry.  He  gave  me  no  hint 
that  he  even  intended  leaving  the  city  and  that 
is  what  puzzles  me.  Tell  me,  do  you  think 
there  is  any  reason  to  fear  that  anything  has 
happened  to  him?" 

"It's  very  improbable,"  he  assured  her.  His 
conviction  that  Gibson  and  "Gink"  Cummings 
were  allied  caused  him  to  have  no  apprehen 
sion  concerning  the  commissioner's  safety. 
"He'll  be  back  in  a  few  days." 

"I  do  hope  so,"  she  said.  "He  is  making 
such  a  success,  isn't  he?" 

"Yes."  He  was  reluctant  to  give  the  affir 
mation.  He  conquered  an  impulse  to  tell  her, 
to  warn  her,  that  it  was  more  than  probable 
Gibson  was  not  the  man  she  believed  him  to 
be.  He  wondered  what  she  would  say  if  he 


240  SPRING  STREET 

told  her  what  had  caused  him  to  turn  against 
Gibson. 

"I  am  very,  very  proud  and  happy,"  she 
said.  "If  anything  should  happen  to  him  I 
don't  know  what  I  would  do." 

The  potentiality  of  the  words,  "If  any 
thing  should  happen  to  him,"  struck  home 
hard  on  John. 

"It  would  be — terrible,"  he  said,  avoiding 
her  eyes. 

"He  has  been  so  considerate,  so  good,"  she 
said.  "I  feel  that  I  owe  him  so  much  I  can 
never  repay." 

A  decision  flashed  into  his  brain  as  she 
spoke.  If  the  time  ever  came  when  enough 
evidence  was  obtained  to  expose  Gibson,  he 
would  go  to  the  commissioner  and  plead  with 
him  to  renounce  Cummings,  for  her  sake. 
There  might  yet  be  a  chance  to  save  Consuello 
from  the  disillusionment  that  was  approaching. 
The  fearfulness  of  Gibson's  perfidy  was  almost 
incomprehensible. 

"I'm  certain  he  does  not  think  so,"  he  said. 

"Do  you  know  what  he  is  planning  for  me 
now?"  she  asked,  and  then,  before  he  at 
tempted  to  reply,  she  added,  "He  plans  to  re 
store  the  wealth  of  the  Carrillos." 

Her  eyes  sparkled  as  she  spoke  and  she 
looked  to  him  for  his  approval. 

"Oil  has  been  struck  within  a  mile  or  so  of 


SPRING  STREET  241 

our  ranch,"  she  explained.  "They  have  asked 
father  to  sell  or  lease  and  Reggie  has  taken 
charge  of  it  for  us.  Father  has  placed  the 
whole  business  in  his  hands;  he  has  so  much 
confidence  in  him.  He  gave  him  an  option  on 
the  ranch  property  and  Reggie  hopes  to  dis 
pose  of  it  for  enough  to  bring  back  our  lost 
fortune  to  us.  Isn't  it  wonderful?" 

"It  certainly  is,"  he  agreed.  "The  discov 
ery  of  oil  is  the  only  get-rich-quick  proposition 
that  is  above  reproach.  A  person  can  be  pov 
erty  stricken  one  day  and  a  millionaire  the 
next  and  no  one  suffers  by  his  quick  acquisi 
tion  of  wealth.  Oil  is  a  treasure  of  nature  be 
stowed  by  fate  and  it  is  needless  for  me  to  add 
that  I  hope  that  fate  is  good  to  you." 

"It's  all  so  complicated  and  technical  that  I 
cannot  grasp  it  and  father  never  was  a  business 
man.  That  is  why  Reggie  is  handling  it  for 
us,"  she  said.  "A  new  well  is  being  bored 
only  a  few  hundred  yards  from  the  ranch  and 
everything  depends  upon  whether  oil  is  struck 
there.  If  they  find  oil  it  is  almost  certain  that 
there  is  oil  on  our  place.  If  no  oil  is  found, 
then,  of  course,  the  value  of  the  ranch  dimin 
ishes." 

"Oil,  like  gold,  they  say,  is  where  you  find 
it,"  John  said. 

"And  so  is  happiness — where  you  find  it," 
Consuello  said.  "That  is  what  comforts  me. 


242  SPRING  STREET 

Money  does  not  necessarily  bring  happiness. 
Even  if  it  turns  out  that  no  oil  is  found  I  can 
still  be  happy.  I  am  happy  now  and  why 
should  I  let  anything  like  the  loss  of  wealth, 
that  never  came  to  me,  disappoint  me?" 

Their  luncheon  finished,  they  walked  to  the 
street,  where  John  found  that  the  automobile 
placed  at  Consuello's  disposal  by  Gibson — he 
was  certain  of  that  now — was  waiting  for  her. 

"Back  to  the  studio  and  work  again,"  she 
said.  "I'm  so  glad  we  were  able  to  meet,  to 
day.  I  have  enjoyed  it  more  than  you  know. 
When  Reggie  returns  we  must  arrange  a  din 
ner  party — the  three  of  us.  And  before  long 
you  and  your  mother  must  come  out  to  the 
ranch.  I  haven't  forgotten  that." 

Her  parting  words  brought  back  to  John 
the  bitter  thought  of  his  mother's  intolerant 
prejudice  against  Consuello  as  he  returned  to 
the  office. 

He  stopped  at  the  city  editor's  desk  to  tell 
P.  Q.  that  his  meeting  with  Consuello  had 
failed  to  develop  a  single  clew  to  Gibson's 
whereabouts. 

"Nothing  doing,"  he  reported. 

"What  do  you  mean,  nothing  doing?"  asked 
P.  Q.  Then  he  added: 

"Gibson  showed  up  about  an  hour  ago." 

"He's  back?"  asked  John. 


SPRING  STREET  243 

''Back  again,"  confirmed  the  city  editor. 
"Says  he  only  went  away  to  rest  up.  Claims 
he  went  some  place  where  he  received  no  word 
from  Los  Angeles  and  didn't  know  crime  had 
opened  up  again." 

"What's  he  going  to  do  about  it?" 

"Oh,  he  came  through  with  just  about  what 
was  expected,"  said  P.  Q.  "Said  he'd  get  right 
to  work  and  put  a  stop  to  it.  Blamed  it  all  on 
the  mayor  and  Sweeney.  Says  it's  further 
proof  that  the  police  department  is  rotten." 

The  last  edition  that  night  carried  the  ban 
ner-line,  "Gibson  Returns  to  Stop  Crime 
Wave." 

Brennan  and  John  sought  Murphy,  but  be- 
ng  unable  to  locate  him,  had  dinner  downtown 
and  continued  their  search  during  the  evening. 
An  hour  before  midnight  they  met  him  as  he 
was  returning  to  his  room. 

"Well,  what's  the  word?"  asked  Brennan. 

"I  got  what  you're  lookin'  for,"  Murphy 
said.  "Da  'Gink'  has  called  off  da  boys  again, 
iie  passes  out  da  word  dat  dere's  to  be  nuttin1 
doin'  tonight,  tomorrow  night  or  until  he  says 
go.'  " 

"When  did  he  give  these  orders,  before  or 
after  Gibson  came  back?"  asked  Brennan. 

"After,"  replied  Murphy.  "And  there'll  be 
nuthin'  doin',  see?" 


244  SPRING  STREET 

"All  right,  Murphy.  Keep  on  the  lookout 
and  drop  in  tomorrow  and  we'll  fix  you  up  for 
this." 

"I  gotcha,"  said  Murphy. 

"Three  and  three  make  six,"  said  Brennan 
to  John  as  they  left  Murphy  at  the  door  of 
his  rooming  house.  "Gibson  goes  away  and 
the  'Gink'  opens  things  up,  Gibson  comes  back 
and  he  shuts  down  again.  That's  how  they 
make  it  appear  that  they  are  enemies  and  that 
Gibson  is  the  only  man  who  can  keep  the  town 
closed." 

That  night  the  crime  wave  stopped  as  sud 
denly  as  it  began.  There  was  not  a  robbery, 
holdup  or  ordinary  theft  reported  to  the  police. 
The  same  order  that  prevailed  when  the 
"Gink"  first  decreed  a  "lay-off"  prevailed  and 
Gibson  issued  a  triumphant  statement  to  the 
reporters  for  the  first  editions  in  the  morning. 

"It  demonstrates  what  little  fear  bandits  and 
crooks  have  for  the  police  under  Chief  Swee 
ney,"  a  part  of  the  statement  read.  "It  shows 
that  the  administration  is  so  inefficient  and  cor 
rupt  that  law  and  order  must  be  enforced  by 
citizens  instead  of  by  the  officials  whose  duty 
it  is  to  keep  the  lid  down  in  Los  Angeles." 

Another  avalanche  of  resolutions  praising 
Gibson  followed  the  publication  of  this  state 
ment.  The  mayor  was  hotly  condemned  for 
his  failure  to  remove  Chief  Sweeney  at  Gib- 


SPRING  STREET  245 

son's  request  and  the  commissioner  was  hailed 
as  a  man  whose  very  name  was  enough  to  in 
timidate  criminals  and  whose  presence  in  the 
city  was  enough  to  keep  outlawry  and  banditry 
at  a  minimum.  One  prominent  citizen  de 
manded  that  the  mayor  resign  and  that  Gibson 
be  appointed  in  his  place  by  acclamation. 

Brennan,  John  and  P.  Q.  held  another  con 
ference  with  the  publisher.  It  was  decided 
that  while  the  evidence  before  them — John's 
experience  in  the  Spring  street  raid  and  Mur 
phy's  information  concerning  "Gink"  Cum- 
mings'  moves  in  opening  and  closing  the  city 
while  Gibson  was  in  and  out  of  it — was  enough 
to  convince  them  all  that  there  was  an  alliance 
between  Cummings  and  the  commissioner,  they 
lacked  sufficient  ammunition  to  "break"  the 
story  and  expose  the  perfidious  plot. 

"Just  a  little  more  information,  boys,  some 
thing  to  show  meetings  between  Gibson  and 
Cummings  or  communications  between  them 
and  we'll  be  ready  to  open  fire,"  said  the  pub 
lisher. 

A  week  later  Gibson  summoned  Brennan 
and  John  to  his  office. 

"How  are  you,  boys?"  he  asked  smiling.  "I 
called  you  up  here  because  I  have  something  to 
give  you." 

He  handed  them  a  slip  of  paper.  It  was  a 
check — his  personal  check — for  $1,000.  The 


246  SPRING  STREET 

space  where  the  name  of  the  recipient  should 
apprear  was  blank. 

"This  means "  began  Brennan. 

"It  means  that  I'm  a  candidate  for  mayor," 
said  Gibson.  "Remember,  I  promised  you 
I'd  donate  $1,000  to  charity  the  minute  I  be 
came  a  candidate  for  any  public  office.  What 
shall  it  be?" 

"The  Children's  hospital,"  said  Brennan. 

Gibson  seated  himself  at  his  desk  and  wrote 
in  the  name,  blotted  it  carefully  and  tossed  it 
toward  them  on  the  table. 


The  formal  announcement  of  Gibson's  can 
didacy,  which  he  gave  to  Brennan  and  John 
immediately  after  turning  over  to  them  the 
check  for  $1,000,  made  out  to  the  Children's 
hospital,  followed  the  lines  foretold  by  Bren 
nan  when  he  predicted  the  commissioner's  en 
try  in  the  mayoralty  race. 

He  declared  he  became  a  candidate  at  the 
persistent  urging  of  organizations  and  individ 
uals  who  had  convinced  him  that  he  would 
deliberately  evade  a  duty  and  service  he  owed 
the  city  if  he  refused.  He  reiterated  his 
charges  against  the  mayor  and  the  administra 
tion,  asserting  that  conditions  as  he  found  them 
in  the  city  government  were  an  intolerable  dis 
grace. 


SPRING  STREET  247 

His  campaign  committee,  chosen  a  few  days 
after  he  announced  his  candidacy,  included  the 
names  of  seventy-five  per  cent  of  the  promi 
nent  and  respected  men  and  women  of  the  city, 
as  well  as  clubs  and  organizations  representing 
the  churches,  civic  improvement  associations, 
manufacturers,  business  men  and  thousands  of 
citizens.  The  Church  Federation  and  the  Min 
isterial  Union,  those  two  great  bodies  working 
always  for  the  welfare  of  the  city,  gave  him 
unqualified  indorsements.  The  best  people  of 
the  city  advocated  his  election. 

Gibson's  nominating  petition  was  completed 
in  less  than  a  week.  The  rapidity  of  the  com 
pletion  of  the  petition  was  viewed  as  a  criter 
ion  of  the  respective  strength  of  the  commis 
sioner  and  of  the  mayor,  whose  supporters 
encountered  considerable  difficulty  in  obtaining 
signatures.  It  was  three  weeks  before  the 
mayor's  petition  could  be  got  ready  for  filing. 

With  the  primary  election  two  months  away 
the  candidates  began  their  campaigns  at  once. 
Gibson  was  everywhere,  addressing  meetings 
night  and  day.  The  enthusiasm  with  which  he 
was  received  surpassed  that  ever  given  to  any 
candidate  in  Los  Angeles.  Daily  he  was 
paraded  through  the  downtown  section  of  the 
city  by  cheering  admirers.  "Gibson  for 
Mayor"  banners  and  cards  decorated  the  en 
tire  city.  From  their  pulpits  the  ministers 


248  SPRING  STREET 

urged  his  election  and  took  up  his  attack  upon 
the  administration.  He  was  given  credit  unan 
imously  for  having  clamped  the  lid  down  in 
Los  Angeles  tighter  than  it  had  ever  been  and 
he  was  acclaimed  as  a  "fighting  man"  because 
of  his  duel  with  "Red  Mike"  and  his  personal 
leadership  of  the  officers  who  raided  the  Spring 
street  handbook  makers. 

The  mayor  was  without  ammunition  to  re 
turn  Gibson's  crossfire  of  charges  against  the 
administration.  He  was  deserted,  except  for 
a  few  loyal  supporters,  who  struggled  vainly 
to  stem  the  tide  of  popular  favor  as  it  swung 
to  Gibson's  side. 

Gibson  scored  heavily  three  weeks  after  his 
campaign  was  opened  by  hurling  charges  that 
"Gink"  Cummings  was  contributing  to  the 
mayor's  campaign  fund  and  placing  his  sinister 
strength  at  his  disposal  to  aid  him  to  be  re- 
elected.  Astounded  by  his  opponent's  audac 
ity,  the  mayor  sent  for  Brennan  and  John. 
His  mild  blue  eyes  were  blazing  and  he  chewed 
vigorously  at  his  cigar. 

"I'm  licked,  boys,  unless  I  do  something 
soon,"  he  said.  "I  have  to  play  a  waiting 
game,  but  I  can't  afford  to  wait  too  long.  I 
can't  come  out  with  the  charge  that  Cummings 
and  Gibson  are  plotting  to  steal  the  city.  I 
haven't  enough  evidence.  People  would  think 
I  am  crazy.  As  it  is,  he's  getting  away  with 


SPRING  STREET  249 

everything.  If  the  primary  was  tomorrow  he'd 
snow  me  under." 

"He's  pulling  all  the  tricks  in  the  bag,"  ad 
mitted  Brennan. 

"And  I  have  nothing  to  come  back  at  him 
with,"  the  mayor  complained. 

"Why  don't  you  fire  him  from  his  position 
as  police  commissioner?"  suggested  Brennan. 

The  mayor  stopped  short  on  the  invisible 
path  he  had  been  pacing  back  and  forth  across 
his  office. 

"Brennan,"  he  said,  "I  thought  you  had 
more  sense  than  to  suggest  a  thing  like  that. 
What  reason  could  I  give  for  firing  him?" 

"Say  it's  for  the  good  of  the  service,  that's 
all." 

"And  give  him  a  chance  to  wail  that  I 
fired  him  because  I  am  afraid  of  him,  that  I 
did  it  in  desperation  to  save  myself.  Why, 
it  would  give  him  10,000  votes  of  sympathy. 
No,  Brennan,  I  must  get  something  real  to 
show  that  Gibson  and  'Gink'  Cummings  are 
partners." 

He  turned  and  walked  to  the  window, 
placing  his  hands  on  both  sides  of  it,  and 
leaned  forward,  his  arms  supporting  him  as  he 
looked  down  into  the  busy  traffic  on  Broad 
way.  It  was  a  position  similar  to  that  he  had 
taken  when  John  first  met  him,  when  he  vowed 
to  expose  Gibson's  alliance  with  Cummings, 


250  SPRING  STREET 

but  the  shoulders  drooped  and  the  outlines 
of  his  figure,  silhouetted  against  the  light 
streaming  in  the  window  suggested  great  bodily 
and  mental  weariness. 

"Is  it  possible  that  I'm  to  go  down  to  defeat, 
to  disgrace,  to  ignominy,  at  the  hands  of  such 
a  despicable  rascal?"  he  said,  without  turning, 
as  though  he  was  speaking  to  himself.  "Is 
this  to  be  my  reward — my  end?  Are  the 
people  of  my  city  to  be  led  like  blind  sheep 
into  a  carnage  of  crime  and  graft?" 

Above  the  roar  of  the  traffic  in  the  street 
below  the  strident  voice  of  a  newsboy,  shout 
ing  his  immature  conception  of  the  most 
important  news  in  the  latest  editions  of  the 
afternoon  papers,  came  up  to  them. 

"Gibson  says  de  mayor's  de  bunk?"  he 
shrieked.  "Just  out —  pa — p — er!" 

The  voice  from  the  street  broke  the  tense 
silence  that  had  followed  the  mayor's  solilo 
quy.  He  turned  from  the  window  quickly  and 
strode  back  to  his  desk  and  the  suggestion  of 
weariness  dropped  from  him  like  a  cloak  and 
he  emerged,  alert,  taut,  energetic,  in  fighting 
trim. 

"This  won't  do,"  he  snapped,  "this  standing 
around  and  feeling  sorry  for  myself.  If  I'm 
going  down  to  defeat  I'm  going  down  fight 
ing  and  when  the  day  comes  that  the  people 
discover  what  a  hypocrite  and  crook  this  man 


SPRING  STREET  251 

Gibson  is,  they'll  remember,  at  least,  that  I 
fought  him  to  the  last. 

"And  I'm  not  licked  yet,  not  by  a  damn  sight. 
I'm  going  to  plug  right  along  and  before 
another  month  passes  I'm  going  to  show  this 
crook  up  if  it's  the  last  thing  I  do  on  earth." 

"That's  more  like  it,"  approved  Brennan. 
"I've  been  in  a  few  forlorn  hope  fights  before 
and  have  seen  the  impossible  happen,  in  fact, 
helped  it  happen." 

"I'm  depending  on  you  more  than  anyone 
else,"  said  the  mayor.  Turning  to  John  he 
added:  "And  you,  too,  Gallant." 

"The  fault  of  crooks — and  we're  dealing 
with  crooks — is  that  they  can't  think  straight, 
all  the  time,"  said  Brennan.  "They  always 
make  a  slip,  some  time.  I've  never  known  it 
to  fail.  No  matter  how  smart  a  crook  is, 
he  always  makes  one  mistake.  He  can't  help 
it.  It's  because  he's  a  crook  and  can't  think 
straight.  It's  up  to  us  to  see  that  we  don't 
overlook  the  mistake  that  Gibson  and  the  'Gink' 
will  make." 

"Let's  hope  they  make  it  soon  enough," 
said  the  mayor.  "The  primary  is  only  five 
weeks  away  and  if  Gibson  is  to  be  exposed 
it  must  be  within  the  next  four  weeks  at  the 
latest." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you  fully  in  that,"  said 
Brennan.  "It  might  be  a  good  idea,  if  we  get 


252  SPRING  STREET 

what  we're  looking  for,  to  hold  off  until  a  few 
days  before  the  election  so  that  Gibson  won't 
have  enough  time  to  reach  the  entire  city  with 
the  story  he'll  frame  up  to  come  back  with." 
"We  won't  worry  about  that  until  we  find 
enough  to  blast  Gibson  and  Cummings  once 
and  for  all,"  the  mayor  said.  "I  have  men 
working  night  and  day  trying  to  link  the  two 
together.  I  have  tried  fairly  and  honestly 
to  discover  where  Gibson  obtained  the  money 
he  has.  He  was  broke,  flat  broke,  about  the 
time  I  was  elected  and  suddenly  he  had  all  the 
money  he  required.  Where  it  came  from  I 
can't  find  out.  There  is  only  one  conclusion 
that  I  can  see  and  that  is  that  Cummings  gave 
it  to  him;  just  as  I  have  contended  from  the 


start." 


Brennan  and  John  saw  Murphy  regularly, 
meeting  him  at  least  once  a  day,  hoping  each 
time  that  he  would  bring  them  the  informa 
tion  they  sought.  But  he  had  little  to  tell  them 
except  that  Cummings  was  enforcing  his  order 
that  there  should  be  no  crime  in  the  city.  One 
night  he  brought  them  a  story  of  how  a  re 
bellious  gangster  becoming  restless,  had 
planned  to  commit  a  robbery  despite  the 
"Gink's"  prohibitory  order  and  had  been 
promptly  "beaten  up"  by  Cummings'  thugs. 

A  week  after  their  last  conference  with  the 
mayor,  Brennan  and  John  received  a  telephone 


SPRING  STREET  253 

message  from  Gibson's  secretary,  who  told 
them  that  the  commissioner  wanted  them  to 
see  him  at  his  office  immediately. 

"Another  grandstand  stunt,  I'll  bet,"  Bren- 
nan  speculated  as  they  hurried  to  Gibson's 
office.  "It's  about  time  for  one." 

Gibson  greeted  them  as  affably  as  ever.  As 
they  entered  his  office  he  closed  and  locked 
the  door  behind  them. 

"Well,  boys,"  he  said,  "how  do  you  think 
my  campaign  is  coming?" 

"You're  going  strong,"  replied  Brennan, 
truthfully. 

"And  how  is  my  friend,  the  mayor?" 

"He  isn't  ready  to  concede  defeat  yet,"  Bren 
nan  said.  "He  realizes,  though,  that  you're 
gaining  ground  on  him  every  day,  or  rather 
increasing  the  lead  you  had  at  the  start." 

Gibson  laughed. 

"He  had  his  chance,"  he  said.  "I  gave 
him  warning,  although  I  believe  I  don't  have 
to  tell  you  again,  that  I  had  no  idea  of  ever 
running  against  him  when  he  appointed  me  a 
commissioner.  By  the  way,  why  doesn't  he 
fire  me?" 

"What  for?"   asked  Brennan. 

"Oh,  I  see,  he  figures  it  would  hurt  him 
more  than  do  him  good,"  concluded  Gibson. 
"Well,  perhaps  he's  right.  But  I  didn't  send 
for  you  boys  to  talk  politics.  I  have  some- 


254  SPRING  STREET 

thing  I  think  will  develop  into  a  story  for  you, 
a  real  story,  not  the  stuff  my  publicity  man 
hands  out." 

"What  is  it?" 

Gibson  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"I  can't  tell  you  now,"  he  said.  "Be  here 
tomorrow  morning  at  10  o'clock  and  you  can 
be  in  on  the  whole  business.  I  don't  expect 
there'll  be  any  shooting,  but  you  might  as 
well  bring  guns  if  you  have  them." 

"Another  'Red  Mike'?"  asked  Brennan. 

Gibson  smiled  again. 

"Be  here  and  see,"  he  said,  inexplicitly. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Benton,  the  photographer,  who 
performed  his  jig  dance  to  the  rhythm 
of  "Gunga  Din"  when  he  was  told  he  faced 
another  adventure,  Brennan  and  John  were 
in  Gibson's  office  before  10  o'clock  the  next 
morning.  They  found  Gibson  alone  in  his 
inner  office. 

"No  'make-up'  this  time,  eh?"  asked  Bren 
nan,  recalling,  by  inference,  Gibson's  unkempt 
costume  on  the  night  he  "shot  it  out"  with 
"Red  Mike"  and  saved  the  "Lark"  from 
destruction. 

"Not  necessary,"  replied  the  commissioner. 
"Speaking  of  'make-up'  reminds  me,  Gallant, 
that  Miss  Carrillo  asked  me  to  tell  you  that 
she  hasn't  forgotten  about  our  dinner  party." 
It  was  the  first  time  that  Consuello's  name  had 
been  mentioned  by  either  of  them  since  that 
afternoon  at  the  studio  when  Gibson  had 
told  John  of  their  engagement. 

"It  would  be  unlike  her  if  she  had  for 
gotten,"  said  John,  ready  to  let  Gibson  infer 
what  he  might  from  the  words.  He  noticed 
that  Brennan  was  looking  at  him  curiously. 

"Suppose  we  set  it  for  the  evening  of  the 
day  I'm  elected  mayor,"  said  Gibson,  smiling. 


256  SPRING  STREET 

Over  Gibson's  shoulder  John  saw  Brennan 
drop  his  right  eyelid  in  a  slow  wink. 

"That  suits  me,"  he  replied.  As  Gibson 
turned  toward  his  desk  John  returned  Bren- 
nan's  wink. 

"Now,  boys,  let's  get  down  to  business," 
Gibson  said  as  he  turned  back  to  face  them,  a 
paper  in  his  hand.  "Here's  the  story.  I'm 
going  to  arrest  one  of  'Gink'  Cummings'  lieu 
tenants.  The  man  I'm  after  is  'Big  Jim' 
Hatch,  a  notorious  bunko  swindler,  and  I've 
got  him  cornered  but  he  doesn't  know  it. 

"Hatch  is  Cummings'  pal.  They  have 
known  each  other  for  years  and  worked  to 
gether.  'Big  Jim'  is  one  of  the  cleverest  bunko 
men  in  the  country,  so  clever  that  he  has  been 
indicted  only  once,  although  he  has  swindled 
victims  out  of  hundreds  of  thousands  of  dol 
lars.  That  indictment  was  returned  against 
him  in  New  York  several  months  ago  and 
he  fled  to  Los  Angeles,  arranging  with  'Gink' 
Cummings  to  operate  here  and  receive  pro 
tection. 

"This  paper  you  see  is  a  telegraphic  war 
rant  from  New  York  for  Hatch's  arrest.  I 
communicated  with  the  New  York  authorities 
as  soon  as  my  detectives  found  that  he  was 
in  the  city  and  told  me  he  was  wanted  in  the 
East.  They  have  trailed  him  day  and  night. 
The  place  where  he  is  living  is  surrounded  now 


SPRING  STREET  257 

by  my  men  and  deputy  sheriffs  who  are  wait 
ing  for  me  before  making  the  raid  and  ar 
resting  him.  Now,  if  you're  ready,  we'll  go 
and  you  can  ask  me  any  questions  you  want  on 
the  way." 

He  led  them  to  an  automobile  parked  in 
front  of  the  office  building.  A  liveried  chauf 
feur  sat  at  the  wheel.  John  saw  it  was  the 
machine  that  Consuello  had  said  had  been 
placed  at  her  disposal  by  "a  friend."  He 
wondered  why  she  never  explained  to  him 
that  it  was  Gibson's  car.  Gibson  took  the 
seat  beside  the  chauffeur,  while  John,  Bren- 
nan  and  Benton  took  the  tonneau  seats.  The 
machine  whirled  away  from  the  curb. 

"Any  questions?"  asked  Gibson  over  his 
shoulder. 

"You've  told  us  everything  we  need  to 
know  now,"  replied  Brennan. 

As  Gibson  turned  back  to  face  the  road  be 
fore  them  John  glanced  toward  Brennan  in 
terrogatively.  Brennan  shook  his  head  doubt 
fully  as  if  he  was  puzzled  by  this  new  move  by 
the  commissioner. 

"I  can't  figure  it  out — yet,"  he  whispered. 

In  twenty  minutes,  at  Gibson's  order,  the 
chauffeur  stopped  the  automobile  at  a  corner 
in  West  Eleventh  street. 

"We'll  stop  here  and  walk  the  rest  of  the 
way,  it's  only  half  a  block,"  explained  the 


258  SPRING  STREET 

commissioner.  "To  drive  up  to  the  house 
would  give  them  warning." 

uBig  Jim's"  house  was  in  the  middle  of  the 
block.  It  was  square,  of  two  stories  and 
set  well  back  from  the  street.  The  blinds 
were  down  in  all  of  the  windows  and  it  had  a 
deserted  appearance.  Out  of  range  of  sight 
from  any  of  the  windows  Gibson  met  a  group 
of  deputy  sheriffs  and  his  private  detectives, 
one  of  whom  stepped  forward  to  address  him. 

"He's  in  there,  all  right,"  the  detective  said. 
"We  trailed  him  in  last  night  and  he  hasn't 
put  his  nose  out  of  doors  since.  What  are 
your  orders,  Mr.  Commissioner?" 

"Who  has  the  search  warrant?"  Gibson 
asked. 

"I  have  it,"  replied  one  of  the  deputy 
sheriffs.  "I  figured  we  might  have  to  go 
in  after  him." 

"Is  the  back  of  the  house  guarded?"  Gib 
son  demanded. 

"Four  men  are  there  and  four  others  posted 
at  the  sides,"  he  was  told. 

"Good!  Let's  go  then;  I'll  lead  the  way," 
said  Gibson. 

He  strode  quickly  toward  the  house  and 
up  the  walk  to  the  front  door,  followed  by 
the  detectives,  the  deputies,  Brennan,  John 
and  the  camera  man.  John  had  a  peculiar 
sinking  feeling  as  he  realized  what  open  tar- 


SPRING  STREET  259 

gets  they  were  as  they  approached  the  house 
if  "Big  Jim"  opened  fire  on  them  from  behind 
the  blind  of  one  of  the  windows  facing  the 
street. 

Gibson  rapped  sharply  on  the  door  and 
they  waited  tensely  for  a  response.  The  offi 
cers'  right  hands  were  on  the  handles  of  their 
automatics  and  revolvers.  There  was  no  re 
sponse  to  Gibson's  rap.  He  clenched  his  fist 
and  hammered  loudly  on  the  solid  panel  of 
the  door.  Again  no  response. 

"You're  certain  he  is  inside?"  demanded 
Gibson. 

"Absolutely,  Mr.  Commissioner,"  assured 
the  detective.  "He's  probably  at  the  door 


now." 


Gibson  stepped  to  one  side  of  the  door  and 
the  others  stepped  back  also. 

"Open  the  door  or  we'll  break  it  down," 
commanded  Gibson,  shouting. 

A  man's  voice  answered  from  behind  the 
door. 

"What  do  you  want?"  it  asked. 

"Open  the  door,"  said  Gibson,  ignoring  the 
question. 

A  key  clicked  in  the  lock  and  the  door 
opened.  Two  of  the  deputies  sprang  on  the 
threshold  beside  Gibson,  their  automatics  in 
their  hands. 

"Put  'em  up !"  they  said  sharply. 


260  SPRING  STREET 

A  large,  florid-faced  man,  wearing  an  ex 
pensive  house  coat,  with  an  expression  of  a 
respectable  citizen  highly  outraged  at  what  was 
before  him,  lifted  his  hands  above  his  head. 

"What's  the  meaning  of  this?"  he  de 
manded  indignantly. 

"There's  no  use  pretending  injured  inno 
cence,  Hatch,"  said  Gibson  coolly.  "We  have 
a  search  warrant  and  a  warrant  for  your 
arrest  from  New  York." 

The  two  deputies  with  drawn  guns  searched 
Hatch  for  a  concealed  weapon,  patting  his 
pockets,  which  they  found  empty.  As  they 
stepped  back  "Big  Jim"  dropped  his  hands 
to  his  side  and  smiled. 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Gibson,"  he  said  obligingly. 
"Do  your  stuff." 

John  was  startled  to  hear  Hatch  call  Gib 
son  by  name.  Nothing  had  been  said  that 
even  hinted  of  the  commissioner's  identity. 
The  search  warrant  was  handed  Gibson. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  read  this?"  he  asked. 

"Don't  trouble  yourself,"  replied  Hatch. 
"All  I  ask  is  that  you  don't  tear  things  to 
pieces  in  here.  Mrs.  Hatch  is  with  me  and 
I  don't  want  her  to  be  bothered." 

"All  right,  boys,  be  quick  about  it,"  ordered 
Gibson,  sending  the  officers  to  search  the 
house,  "and  don't  disturb  Mrs.  Hatch  unless 
it's  necessary." 


SPRING  STREET  261 

As  the  private  detectives  and  deputies  left 
them,  Benton  stepped  forward  with  a  request 
that  Gibson  and  Hatch  pose  for  a  photograph. 

"You  brought  them  with  you,  eh,  Gibson?" 
said  Hatch.  Then  to  the  photographer  he 
added:  "I'll  accommodate  you  under  one  con 
sideration." 

"Say  it,"  requested  Benton. 

"That  you  leave  Mrs.  Hatch  out  of  this," 
said  "Big  Jim." 

The  photographer  looked  to  Brennan  for  an 
answer  to  this  proposal. 

"Go  ahead,  Benton,"  Brennan  agreed,  "we 
won't  bother  Mrs.  Hatch." 

While  Benton  was  photographing  Gibson 
and  Hatch,  John  observed  the  bunko  swindler 
more  closely.  To  all  outward  appearances 
"Big  Jim"  might  have  been  any  one  of  the 
well-to-do  business  men  one  sees  daily  on  the 
downtown  streets.  His  hair  was  gray  with 
a  touch  of  white  at  the  temples,  his  complexion 
ruddy.  On  the  little  finger  of  his  plump, 
soft  hand  he  wore  a  diamond  ring  in  which 
the  gem  was  the  size  of  a  pea.  It  was  obvious 
that  his  suit  was  the  work  of  a  high-priced 
tailor.  He  had  frank  blue  eyes  that  had  a 
guileless  expression  and  there  were  no  crim 
inal  characteristics  in  the  shape  of  his  head, 
the  position  of  his  ears  and  the  contour  of  his 
lips. 


262  SPRING  STREET 

"I  suppose  you'll  want  me  to  go  back  with 
you,"  Hatch  said  to  Gibson  after  Benton  had 
made  his  final  flashlight  picture  of  them. 

"As  soon  as  the  search  is  completed,"  as 
sented  the  commissioner.  "Tell  me,  Hatch, 
what  about  this  New  York  job?" 

"Big  Jim"  drew  a  cigar  from  his  vest 
pocket,  clipped  off  the  end  of  it  with  a  snap  of 
his  teeth  and  lighted  it  with  a  match.  He 
puffed  at  the  cigar,  looked  at  it  critically  and 
smiled  before  he  answered. 

"You  can  speak  about  that  to  my  lawyer," 
he  said. 

In  pairs  the  deputies  and  detectives  re 
turned  from  their  search  of  the  house  empty- 
handed. 

"Nothing  worth  taking,"  they  reported. 

They  prepared  to  leave,  Hatch  donned  a 
suit  coat  and  put  on  his  hat.  As  they  started 
toward  the  door  John  was  in  the  rear.  He 
was  about  to  step  over  the  threshold  to  join 
the  others  outside  when  a  hand  touched  his 
arm.  He  turned  and  faced  a  girl,  a  very 
pretty  girl,  he  thought,  with  large  blue  eyes, 
golden  hair  and  petite  figure. 

"Are  you  a  reporter?"  the  girl  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  mystified. 

"Then  please  come  back  here,  tonight,  I 
have  something  to  tell  you." 


SPRING  STREET  263 

The  door  closed  and  he  was  outside  again. 

***** 

It  was  not  until  after  Hatch  had  been  lodged 
in  the  county  jail  to  await  the  arrival  of 
officers  from  New  York  and  Brennan  had  writ 
ten  the  story  of  Gibson's  arrest  of  the  swindler 
that  John  revealed  that  the  girl,  whom  he 
presumed  was  Mrs.  Hatch,  had  asked  him 
to  return  to  the  house  that  night.  The  ar 
rest  of  "Big  Jim"  was  the  outstanding  local 
news  story  of  the  day.  Gibson  issued  another 
statement  in  which  he  emphasized  that  Hatch 
was  one  of  "Gink"  Cummings'  men,  who  com 
pletely  escaped  the  notice  of  Chief  Sweeney's 
"inefficient"  detectives. 

When  Brennan  had  handed  to  P.  Q.  the 
last  sheet  of  his  story  of  Hatch's  arrest  John 
told  him  how  the  girl  had  stopped  him  at  the 
door  and  asked  him  to  return. 

"Great!"  exclaimed  Brennan.  "I  can't  fig 
ure  out  Gibson's  game  in  arresting  'Big  Jim.' 
She'll  probably  be  able  to  give  us  the  tip." 

"I  wonder  what  she  wants  to  tell  me,"  said 
John. 

"Tell  US,  you  mean,"  Brennan  amended. 
"You  don't  think  you're  not  going  to  take 
me  along  with  you,  do  you?" 

A  few  minutes  after  8  o'clock  that  evening 
John  and  Brennan  returned  to  the  scene  of 


264  SPRING  STREET 

their  adventure  of  the  afternoon.  John 
rapped  on  the  door  and  the  girl  spoke  to  them 
without  opening  it. 

"Who  is  it,  please?"  she  asked. 

"It's  the  reporter  you  spoke  to  this  after 
noon,"  John  said,  and  the  door  swung  open. 
The  girl  stood  with  her  hand  on  the  knob. 
She  glanced  inquiringly  toward  Brennan. 

"My  partner,"  John  explained. 

"Come  in,"  she  invited,  with  a  friendly 
smile. 

She  waited  until  they  had  entered  and  then 
closed  the  door  behind  them,  locking  it  care 
fully.  Without  speaking  she  led  them  into  a 
sitting  room,  artistically  furnished,  lighted 
only  by  a  rose-shaded  table  lamp.  She  mo 
tioned  them  to  a  deep-cushioned  davenport 
and  seated  herself  in  a  chair  under  the  light 
from  the  lamp. 

There  was  no  doubt  about  it,  she  was 
pretty!  Her  blonde  hair  shone  in  the  light 
and  the  shadows  about  her  eyes  added  to 
their  beauty.  Her  face  was  round  and  pi 
quant,  her  lips  a  deep  crimson  and  tiny.  Her 
one-piece  dress  on  which  beads  sparkled,  ex 
posed  a  delicately  rounded  throat  and  slender 
white  arms.  Her  hands  were  small  and  white 
and  her  fingernails  were  highly  polished.  Sheer 
silk  stockings  and  neat,  expensive  shoes.  A 
hint  of  cheapness  about  her;  perhaps  it  was  the 


SPRING  STREET  265 

unnatural  thinness  of  the  delicately  arched 
eyebrows,  John  thought;  or  perhaps  the  short 
ness  of  her  skirt;  but  she  was  pretty! 

"I  suppose  you  understand  that  I  am  Mrs. 
Hatch?"  she  said. 

They  nodded. 

"Now,"  she  continued,  "can  you  give  me 
some  assurance  that  you  are  really  reporters 
and  not  detectives." 

They  produced  their  press  badges  which  she 
examined  under  the  light. 

Apparently  satisfied,  she  looked  at  them  for 
a  moment  and  then  spoke. 

UI  want  you  to  help  me,"  she  said;  "help 
me  and  my  husband." 

"If  there  is  any  legitimate  way  we  can  help 
you,  we  will,"  Brennan  assured  her. 

"I  will  begin  at  the  beginning  and  tell  you 
everything,"  she  said.  "When  I  have  finished 
you  can  tell  me  what  you  can  do  for  me. 

"In  the  first  place,  I  am  speaking  to  you 
because  my  husband  is  afraid  to  say  anything. 
He  does  not  know  that  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
this,  but  I  am  doing  it  to  save  him,  because" 
— she  hesitated — "I  love  him. 

"Jim  was  indicted  back  in  New  York  and 
came  here  to  escape  arrest.  We  arrived 
here  five  months  ago.  Whether  Jim  is  guilty 
of  what  he  is  charged  with  in  New  York  is 
for  him  to  say.  All  I  know  is  that  he  was 


266  SPRING  STREET 

indicted  and  that  we  came  to  Los  Angeles  to 
escape  the  officers. 

"We  came  here  because  Jim  was  a  friend 
of  'Gink'  Cummings  and  he  thought  that  Cum- 
mings  would  protect  him.  Jim  saw  Cum 
mings  soon  after  we  reached  the  city  and  Cum 
mings  greeted  him  like  a  long  lost  brother. 
He  said  that  we  could  hide  in  Los  Angeles 
and  be  reasonably  sure  that  the  New  York 
officers  would  never  learn  we  were  here. 

"A  month  after  we  came  here  we  ran  out 
of  money  and  Jim  decided  to  get  to  work 
again.  You  can  guess  how  Jim  planned  to 
work.  I  need  not  tell  you  more  than  that 
before  another  month  went  by  he  had  the 
money.  It  wasn't  as  much  as  he  had  hoped  for 
and  we  were  disappointed.  We  knew  that 
every  time  he  went  to  work  he  not  only  risked 
new  trouble,  but  identification  as  the  man  who 
was  wanted  in  New  York.  That  is  why  his 
— his  jobs  had  to  be  few  and  far  between. 
We  planned  to  make  every  cent  of  the  money 
last  as  long  as  we  could. 

"Of  course,  'Gink'  Cummings  knew  what 
Jim  had  done.  When  the  job  was  completed 
he  called  Jim  to  his  office  and  told  him  that 
he  would  have  to  split  what  money  he  had 
got  with  him.  He  told  Jim  that  no  one 
worked  in  Los  Angeles  without  giving  him 
at  least  a  10  per  cent  cut,  for  protection. 


SPRING  STREET  267 

"Jim  was  surprised.  He  had  figured  that 
Cummings  was  his  friend.  He  told  Cum- 
mings  that  he  could  not  afford  to  split  with 
him  and  explained  how  it  was,  that  he  could 
not  risk  working  often  and  had  to  make  his 
money  last.  He  thought  that  this  explanation 
would  satisfy  the  'Gink,'  but  it  didn't. 

"They  quarreled.  Cummings  told  Jim  that 
he  could  not  work  in  Los  Angeles  or  stay 
here  unless  he  'came  through.'  Jim  told 

him  to  go  to  h .  Til  tip  New  York  that 

you're  here,'  Cummings  told  him.  Jim  told 
him  to  go  to  it,  that  he  was  in  trouble  and 
needed  help  instead  of  being  compelled  to  put 
himself  in  danger. 

"We  were  afraid  that  Cummings  would 
follow  out  his  threat  and  tip  the  New  York 
police,  so  we  left  the  city.  We  went  to  San 
Diego  for  a  month  and  then,  figuring  that 
Cummings  would  believe  we  had  left  for 
good,  came  back  to  Los  Angeles  again.  We 
were  safe  enough  until  a  month  ago  when  Jim 
did  another  job.  He  had  to;  we  were  broke. 
Cummings  found  out  about  it  and  came  to 
see  Jim.  He  came  here,  to  this  house.  He 
sat  where  you  are  sitting  now.  While  he  was 
talking  to  Jim  I  was  behind  the  curtain  there 
and  heard  every  word."  She  indicated  por 
tieres  behind  them. 

"I    won't    repeat    everything    I    heard,    al- 


268  SPRING  STREET 

though  I  could  if  it  was  necessary.  Cum- 
mings  said  he  had  heard  Jim  had  done  another 
job  and  came  to  him  for  his  split.  'You  got 
away  with  it  once,  Jim,'  he  said;  'I  didn't 
do  anything  but  you've  got  to  come  through 
this  time.  I  run  things  here  in  Los  Angeles, 
let  me  tell  you  that.  You're  an  old  pal  and 
all  that  and  I'd  like  to  let  you  alone,  but  I 
can't  afford  to.  The  boys  are  hollering  be 
cause  you're  working  without  kicking  in  and 
for  my  own  protection  you've  got  to  split.' 

"  'And  what'll  you  do  if  I  don't?'  Jim  asks. 
'Well,'  says  Cummings,  'I  could  have  you 
croaked.'  When  he  said  that  I  thought  Jim 
was  going  to  kill  him  right  here,  but  he  kept 
control  of  himself.  'Or,'  says  Cummings,  'I'll 
have  you  pinched  for  that  New  York  job.' 
Jim  smiled  when  he  heard  that.  'Who'll  do 
the  pinching?'  he  asked.  'One  of  your  paid 
cops?'  'It'll  be  somebody  bigger  than  a  cop,' 
said  Cummings." 

John  felt  Brennan  move  forward  on  the 
davenport. 

"  'Somebody  bigger  than  a  cop.'  Are  you 
sure  he  said  that?"  Brennan  asked. 

"Those  were  his  words,"  Mrs.  Hatch  an 
swered.  "  'Who'll  that  be?'  asks  Jim.  'Never 
mind  who  it'll  be,'  says  Cummings,  'you'll  find 
that  out  when  it  happens.  Now,  I'm  giving 
you  your  last  chance,  either  come  across  or 


SPRING  STREET  269 

go  back  and  do  your  bit;  what's  it  going  to 
be?' 

"I  know  Jim.  I  know  he  would  rather 
have  died  than  to  have  given  in  to  Cummings. 
'Nothing  doing,  "Gink,"  '  Jim  says.  'All  right, 
Jim,'  says  Cummings,  'don't  ever  say  I  didn't 
give  you  a  chance.'  Then  he  left. 

"I  was  afraid.  I  begged  Jim  to  split  with 
Cummings  and  make  the  most  of  it.  But  he 
was  stubborn.  'I'd  rather  go  to  the  pen  than 
split  with  that  cur,'  he  says  to  me.  So  nothing 
more  happened  until  today  and  you  were  here 
and  saw  it. 

"Now,  this  is  how  I  think  you  may  be  able 
to  help  us.  You  saw  who  it  was  who  ar 
rested  Jim.  It  was  Gibson,  the  police  com 
missioner,  who  is  running  for  mayor.  Gibson 
must  have  been  the  man  Cummings  referred  to 
when  he  said  that  it  would  be  somebody  big 
ger  than  a  cop  who  would  arrest  Jim.  Gib 
son  could  never  have  known  anything  about 
Jim  unless  Cummings  told  him.  Gibson  and 
Cummings  must  be  working  together,  some 
how.  The  only  reason  Jim  was  arrested  was 
because  he  wouldn't  split  with  Cummings  and 
it's  Gibson  who  arrests  him.  Can't  you  see  the 
connection? 

"Jim  can  tell  you  every  word  I've  told 
you  and  a  lot  more  and  there  should  be  some 
way  of  using  it  to  aid  him.  I  don't  know  how, 


270  SPRING  STREET 

but  there  should  be  some  way.  If  he  told 
everything  to  the  district  attorney  here,  don't 
you  think  it  might  help  him  a  little?  You 
see,  Cummings  wants  him  sent  back  to  New 
York  as  soon  as  possible  so  he  won't  start 
talking.  He  won't  say  anything  about  what 
Jim  has  done  here  because  he  wants  him  out 
of  the  state. 

"I  thought  that  if  Jim  would  tell  his  story 
to  the  district  attorney  or  to  some  newspaper 
it  might  be  arranged  to  have  some  recommen 
dation  for  leniency  for  him  when  he  goes  back 
to  New  York.  Or,  he  might  be  able  to  have 
the  charge  back  there  dropped  and  get  im 
munity  out  here." 

She  paused.  There  was  a  tense  silence  until 
she  spoke  again,  softly. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  "I  love  Jim  and  he 
loves  me.  We  had  decided,  after  this  ex 
perience  with  Cummings,  to  go  straight.  Jim 
told  me  that  he  would  work  the  rest  of  his 
life  to  pay  back  whatever  he  had  taken  wrong 
fully  and  we  would  be  happy  together.  We 
wouldn't  have  to  live  in  fear  and  the  day 
would  come  when  we  could  hold  up  our  heads 
and  have  a  little  home  and — and — children." 

John  thought  he  saw  tears  in  her  eyes  as 
she  ended  the  sentence. 

"I  have  trusted  you  in  telling  you  this,"  she 
said.  "I  feel  that  I  can  trust  you.  Tell  me, 


SPRING  STREET  271 

please  tell  me,  can  anything  be  done  with 
what  I've  told  you?" 

She  looked  toward  them  pleadingly,  anx 
iously.  Brennan  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of 
the  davenport,  his  body  bent  forward,  his  el 
bows  on  his  knees,  gazing  intently  at  the  girl. 

"A  crook  can't  think  straight  all  the  time," 
he  said,  quietly.  "  'Gink'  Cummings  has  made 
his  mistake." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

T^HE  story  told  by  Evelyn  Hatch — Evelyn 
•*•  was  her  given  name —  was  twice  repeated 
by  John  and  Brennan  the  next  day,  first  to 
P.  Q.  and  then  to  the  publisher  of  their  paper. 
It  was  decided  that  Hatch's  own  story  should 
be  obtained  and,  if  possible,  put  in  affidavit 
form.  Following  their  conferences  with  P.  Q. 
and  the  "chief"  they  went  directly  to  the 
county  jail  where  "Big  Jim"  was  brought 
down  from  his  cell  at  their  request. 

He  greeted  them  genially,  offering  them 
cigars  as  they  led  him  to  a  quiet  corner  of 
the  reception  room. 

"I  always  try  to  be  a  good  scout  with  news 
paper  men,"  Hatch  said,  smiling.  "I've  had 
considerable  experience  with  reporters  and 
I've  always  found  them  square  and  fair.  And, 
without  speaking  personally,  of  course,  I  can 
tell  you  that  you  reporters  do  more  to  eradi 
cate  crime  than  all  the  police  in  the  country." 

"Hatch,"  said  Brennan,  ignoring  the  com 
pliment,  "we've  had  a  talk  with  your  wife." 

"You  promised  me  you'd  let  her  alone," 
said  "Big  Jim"  sharply. 

"We  never  spoke  to  her  until  she  told  us 
she  wanted  to  see  us,"  John  put  in.  "As  I 


SPRING  STREET  273 

was  leaving  the  house  after  you  were  arrested 
she  stopped  me  and  asked  me  to  come  back, 
saying  she  had  something  to  tell  me." 

The  anger  that  had  blazed  in  Hatch's  eyes 
when  he  suspected  them  of  violating  their 
promise  softened  to  tenderness. 

"Poor  kid,"  he  said,  "it's  a  hard  jolt  for 
her."  He  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  added, 
"She's  the  only  one  in  the  world  who  really 
cares  what  becomes  of  me.  Well,  what  did 
she  have  to  say  to  you?" 

"You   can   guess,    can't   you?"    asked    Bren- 


nan. 

u 


I  suppose  I  could,  but  I'm  not  going  to," 
returned   Hatch. 

"She    wants    to    help    you,"    said    Brennan. 

"You  don't  have  to  tell  me  that." 

"What  she  told  us  she  revealed  with  the 
sole  thought  of  trying  to  help." 

Drawing  mild  little  puffs  of  smoke  from 
tiis  cigar  "Big  Jim"  waited  silently,  thought 
fully,  for  Brennan  to  continue. 

She  told  us  about  your  trouble  with  lGink' 
Cummings — the    whole    business."       Brennan 
watched    Hatch's    face    intently    as    he    spoke. 
And  to  prove  it  I'll  repeat  her  story  to  us, 
exactly  as  she  told  it." 

While  Brennan  was  relating  what  Mrs. 
Hatch  had  told  them  "Big  Jim"  sat  motion 
less  in  his  chair,  his  head  bowed  on  his  chest. 


274  SPRING  STREET 

John  watched  the  ash  in  Hatch's  cigar  turn 
ing  from  a  glowing  red  to  a  heatless  gray. 
When  Brennan  finished  Hatch  spoke  without 
raising  his  head. 

"Poor  little  kid,"  he  said,  tenderly.  He 
straightened  up  in  his  chair,  tossed  away  his 
cigar  and  scrutinized  Brennan  keenly. 

"Every  word  she  spoke  is  the  truth;  every 
word  of  it,  and,  more,"  he  said.  "I've  de 
cided  to  take  my  jolt  back  in  New  York  so  I 
can  get  back  to  her  as  soon  as  I  can.  She'll 
wait  for  me,  I  know  she  will.  Whether  you 
can  help  me  or  not,  I'll  tell  you  everything." 

John  felt  his  heart  jump  in  his  breast. 

"When?"   asked  Brennan  quickly. 

"Now,"   said  Hatch. 

"Shoot,"   said  Brennan. 

"There's  no  use  going  over  what  Evelyn 
told  you  again,"  said  Big  Jim,  without  a  sec 
ond's  hesitation.  "I'll  swear  to  every  word 
she  said.  But  there's  something  she  didn't  tell 
you,  because  she  didn't  know  it. 

"Did  you  notice  that  I  called  Gibson  by 
name  when  he  arrested  me?" 

Brennan  nodded. 

"Well,  where  do  you  suppose  I  saw  him 
to  know  him  by  sight?" 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  snapped 
out: 

"In  'Gink'  Cummings'  apartment!" 


SPRING  STREET  275 

John  discovered  that  he  had  been  holding 
his  breath.  Gibson  in  Cummings'  apartment! 
A  thrill  like  a  mild  electric  shock  shot  up  and 
down  his  spine. 

"The  'Gink's'  apartment?"  asked  Brennan. 

"That's  the  place,"  Hatch  confirmed.  "It 
was  about  a  month  ago.  I  can  give  you  the 
exact  day  and  hour  later.  I  went  to  Cum 
mings  to  try  to  settle  things  between  us,  with 
out  Evelyn  knowing  it.  We  were  alone  to 
gether  when  someone  knocked  on  the  door. 
Cummings  answered  it.  As  he  left  the  room 
he  pulled  the  door  to  close  it,  but  it  swung 
back  open  and  I  saw  into  the  hallway. 

"I  saw  Gibson  enter.  I  didn't  know  who 
it  was  then  and  suppose  it  was  pure  curiosity 
that  made  me  watch  them.  They  talked  for 
a  minute  and  then  Gibson  started  toward  the 
door  of  the  room  I  was  in.  As  he  did  so, 
Cummings  saw  that  the  door  was  open  and 
stepped  over  and  closed  it.  That  was  all  I 


saw. 
it 


I  heard  Cummings  say,  'Don't  do  this 
again.'  When  he  came  back  he  told  me  there 
could  be  no  settlement  between  us  except  I 
split  with  him  and  I  left.  The  next  day  I 
saw  Gibson's  photograph  in  a  newspaper  and 
it  nearly  knocked  me  off  my  chair.  Just  to 
make  sure  I  hunted  Gibson  up  and  when  I 
saw  him  I  knew  I  couldn't  have  been  mistaken. 


276  SPRING  STREET 

Gibson  was  the  man  I  saw  in  Cummings' 
apartment. 

"I'm  sure  that  Cummings  doesn't  realize 
that  I  saw  Gibson  that  night.  If  he  had 
known  it  he  would  never  have  had  me  arrested 
and  yet  I  was  afraid  to  threaten  him  with 
it.  I  thought  that  if  I  told  him  I  had  seen 
Gibson  at  his  place  he  would  have  bumped 
me  off,  but  now  that  I'm  here  in  jail  I  have 
nothing  to  fear.  He  won't  dare  to  tell  the 
authorities  about  my  jobs  in  Los  Angeles  be 
cause  if  he  does  he'll  make  my  story  stronger. 
Besides,  all  he  knows  is  that  I  got  the  money. 
He  doesn't  know  whom  I  got  it  from  or  when  or 
how. 

"That's  my  addition  to  Evelyn's  story. 
That's  how  I  knew  it  was  Gibson  when  he 
stepped  in  to  arrest  me.  You  can  see  how 
it  worked  out.  When  I  defied  Cummings  he 
arranged  with  Gibson  to  arrest  me.  He  had 
Gibson  do  it  because  Gibson  is  his  man  and 
he  wants  the  public  to  think  that  they  are 
enemies.  I'm  telling  you  this  because  after 
I  do  my  bit  back  in  New  York  I'm  going 
straight,  with  Evelyn.  I'm  going  to  pay  back 
every  cent  I  ever  took  from  anyone  and,  per 
haps,  sometime  we'll  have  a  home  and — what 
she  said." 

Overwhelmed  mentally  by  the  condemning 
information  against  Gibson  which  had  been 


SPRING  STREET  277 

given  them  by  "Big  Jim,"  John  was  startled 
by  Brennan's  first  words  after  Hatch  had 
stopped  speaking. 

"What  a  fat-head  I  am!"  Brennan  ex 
claimed. 

Hatch's  face  showed  that  he  shared  John's 
surprise  at  Brennan's  ejaculation. 

"Oh,  what  a  sap  I  am!"  he  continued. 
"Why,  oh,  why  haven't  we  shadowed  them? 
Why  haven't  we  followed  them  night  and 
day  until  we  found  them  together?  Why 
didn't  one  of  us  spot  the  'Gink's'  apartment?" 

"You're  lucky  you  haven't,"  Hatch  put  in. 
"You  couldn't  have  gotten  away  with  it. 
They  probably  would  have  killed  you.  Any 
way,  I  doubt  very  much  if  they  actually  meet 
each  other  now.  The  'Gink'  warned  Gibson 
when  I  saw  them  that  he  was  not  to  'do  this 
again,'  which  meant  he  shouldn't  come  to  the 
apartment." 

"They're  in  communication  with  each  other, 
somehow,"  said  Brennan. 

"There's  the  telephone,  or  they  may  be  us 
ing  the  mails,  or  they  may  have  a  confidential 
agent,  a  go-between,"  Hatch  suggested. 

"I  don't  think  the  'Gink'  would  take  a 
chance  with  a  go-between,"  said  Brennan. 

Before  they  left  him  to  hurry  back  to  the 
office,  Hatch  agreed  to  make  an  affidavit  con 
taining  what  he  had  told  them,  including  the 


278  SPRING  STREET 

portion  of  the  story  told  by  his  wife,  and  had 
consented  to  allow  them  to  obtain  a  sworn 
statement  from  Mrs.  Hatch. 

"There's  only  one  thing  wrong  with  what 
we  got  from  'Big  Jim,'  "  Brennan  said  as  they 
left  the  jail,  "and  that  is  that  it  comes  from 
a  man  facing  a  term  in  the  penitentiary.  It's 
difficult  for  people  to  believe  a  confessed 
swindler  like  Hatch,  although  he's  telling 
the  truth.  Even  his  wife's  story  would  be 
received  skeptically  simply  because  she  is  his 
wife.  Gibson  has  such  a  hold  on  the  city,  such 
a  reputation  for  honesty  and  integrity,  such 
influential  support,  that  his  mere  denial  of 
what  Hatch  says  would  be  believed  implicitly." 

"But  consider  Hatch's  story  along  with  the 
framed-up  Spring  street  raid  and  the  informa 
tion  we  have  of  how  Cummings  opened  and 
closed  the  town  to  convince  the  people  that 
Gibson  is  the  only  man  who  can  stop  crime," 
John  argued. 

"We  must  look  at  it  from  the  reader's  view 
point,"  said  Brennan.  "It's  the  reader  whom 
we  have  to  convince.  He  wants  facts,  plain, 
hard  facts.  We  have  nothing  to  actually 
show  that  Cummings  framed  the  Spring  street 
raid  in  collusion  with  Gibson.  We  have 
nothing  to  actually  show  that  the  opening  and 
closing  of  the  city  by  Cummings  was  to  build 
up  a  reputation  for  Gibson.  All  that  is  mere 


SPRING  STREET  279 

inference,  suspicion.  And  the  weakness  in 
Hatch's  story  is  in  the  fact  that  he  is  a  crook 
himself,  although  you  and  I  know  that  he  told 
us  the  truth." 

"Then  we  haven't  enough  yet?"  said  John. 

"I'm  afraid  not." 

"But  you  said  last  night  that  Cummings 
had  made  his  one  big  mistake." 

"And  I  wasn't  wrong  when  I  said  it.  We 
don't  have  to  take  Hatch's  story  simply  as  it 
stands.  It's  up  to  us  now  to  get  corroboration 
enough  to  make  it  undeniable." 

"How?" 

"By  finding  someone  who  has  seen  Gibson 
visit  Cummings'  apartment,  a  janitor,  a  neigh 
bor,  the  clerk  at  the  desk,  anyone." 

"Suppose  no  one  saw  him." 

"Then  we  must  find  out  how  they  are  com 
municating  with  each  other.  We  can  tap  the 
telephone  in  Cummings'  apartment  and  those 
at  Gibson's  office  and  home  if  it  comes  to 
that." 

P.  Q.  and  the  "chief"  upheld  Brennan's 
judgment  that  Hatch's  story  needed  more 
corroboration  than  that  given  by  his  wife  and 
that  the  attack  on  Gibson,  exposing  him  as  a 
fraud,  would  have  to  be  postponed  until  one 
more  link  was  added  to  the  chain  of  evidence 
against  him.  It  was  decided  that  Brennan  and 
John  should  concentrate  their  endeavors  in  an 


280  SPRING  STREET 

effort  to  discover  the  method  of  communica 
tion  between  Gibson  and  the  "Gink." 
*     *     *     *     * 

That  night  John  saw  Consuello  again  and 
realized  with  a  suddenness  that  shocked  him 
that  he  loved  her. 

The  tremendousness  of  his  realization  that 
he  was  in  love  with  her  frightened  him,  and 
yet  he  was  gloriously  happy.  Exultant  joy,  a 
rapture  faintly  akin  to  the  ecstasy  that  had 
thrilled  him  the  first  Christmas  morning  he 
could  remember,  gave  a  buoyancy  to  his  brain, 
his  heart,  his  soul.  He  knew  that  he  had 
loved  her  from  the  moment  he  met  her  and 
regardless  of  what  the  future  held  for  them 
he  would  go  on  loving  her  forever. 

Returning  to  his  desk  after  the  conference 
in  the  "chief's"  office  on  the  story  told  by 
"Big  Jim"  Hatch,  John  found  a  sheet  of  copy 
paper  stuck  in  the  roller  of  his  typewriter. 
That  was  the  office  boy's  way  of  leaving  mem 
oranda  of  telephone  calls  for  the  reporters. 

"Call  Miss  Carrillo  at  the  studio,"  John 
read.  He  went  immediately  to  the  telephone 
booth. 

"There  will  be  a  pre-view  of  the  picture, 
my  latest,  here  tonight  and  I  thought  you 
might  like  to  see  it,"  she  said.  "Reggie  is 
so  busy  campaigning  that  he  can't  be  here," 
she  added, 


SPRING  STREET  281 

"I  would  like  it,"  he  told  her. 

"Can  you  come?" 

"Yes,  certainly." 

"Splendid,"  she  said.  "The  pre-view  will 
be  at  7  :30,  but  can't  you  get  here  earlier  so 
we  can  have  dinner  together  and  talk?" 

"At  six,  then,"  he   suggested. 

"At  six,"  she  assented. 

He  wondered  why  it  was  he  felt  relieved 
when  she  said  that  Gibson  would  not  be  there 
with  them. 

It  was  dusk  when  he  reached  the  studio  a 
few  minutes  before  six.  She  had  waited 
for  him  in  her  dressing  room  to  which  he  was 
escorted  by  the  maid. 

"There's  a  little  place  a  few  blocks  away 
where  we  always  go  for  dinner  when  we're  kept 
late,"  she  said.  "I  discovered  it  myself.  I 
delight  in  finding  little  out-of-the-way  places  to 
eat.  Reggie  can't  understand  it.  He's  un 
comfortable  every  minute  of  the  time  we're 
there." 

"You  would  have  liked  my  father,"  he  said. 
"Almost  every  week  he  treated  mother  and 
me  by  taking  us  to  dinner  at  some  genuinely 
picturesque  place  he  had  found.  Sometimes 
it  would  be  a  little  Spanish  restaurant  in  So- 
nora  Town,  sometimes  an  Italian  cafe  in 
North  Broadway  and  sometimes  a  French 
table  de  hote,  which  I  liked  best.  Mother 


282  SPRING  STREET 

was  like  you  say  Gibson  is,  uncomfortable 
every  minute,  but  father  and  I  enjoyed  it  im 
mensely.  One  night,  when  mother  wasn't  with 
us,  we  had  tamales  at  one  of  those  wagon 
lunch  places  drawn  up  at  the  curb  near  the 
Plaza  and  lighted  by  a  sputtering  kerosene 
range  and  a  lantern  that  gave  it  an  appearance 
of  being  a  ship's  cabin.  I'll  never  forget  it." 

"You  miss  your  father  greatly,  don't  you?" 
she  said.  The  sympathy  in  her  voice  was 
like  soothing  music. 

"Everything  in  me  that  amounts  to  any 
thing  I  owe  to  him,"  he  said. 

They  walked  to  the  "little  place  around  the 
corner,"  as  Consuello  referred  to  it.  The 
dinner  was  served  to  them  at  a  corner  table 
in  a  spotlessly  clean  room  of  "Mother"  Gra 
ham's  cafe,  which  was  only  large  enough  to 
accommodate  a  dozen  couples.  The  pro 
prietress,  "Mother"  Graham,  who  took  as 
much  pride  in  her  cookery  as  the  chef  of  the 
most  expensive  cafe,  greeted  Consuello  ef 
fusively. 

"And  how's  my  little  darling,  tonight?"  she 
asked.  "  'Mother'  Graham  shall  serve  you 
herself,  for  it's  not  every  night  that  I  see  your 
dear  face." 

The  dinner  was  plain,  appetizing  home 
cooking;  delicious  brown  chops,  crisp  cool 


SPRING  STREET  283 

salad,  fragrant  coffee  and  hot  rolls;  berries 
and  cream.  Once  John  caught  a  glimpse  of 
"Mother"  Graham  pointing  out  Consuello 
to  a  pop-eyed  girl  and  her  youthful  escort  as 
"Jean  Hope." 

"I  am  being  envied,"  he  said  across  the 
table. 

"By  whom?" 

"By  everyone  who  sees  us.  I  do  not  blame 
them,  for  I  am  to  be  envied." 

"Because  you  are  with  Jean  Hope?"  she 
smiled. 

"Because  I  am  with  Consuello  Carrillo," 
he  answered.  "I  do  not  know  Jean  Hope  yet. 
I  am  to  meet  her,  tonight." 

"You  saw  her  before  the  camera,"  she 
reminded  him. 

"But   never    on    the    screen,"    he    returned. 

"And  what  if  you  don't  like  her?" 

"My  consolation  will  be  that  she  is  only 
a  shadow,  a  make-believe." 

"You  are  different,"  she  told  him,  "and  it's 
not  because  you  lack  imagination.  Most 
everyone  does  not  disassociate  a  film  player 
from  her  shadow.  They  think  of  her  always 
as  the  type  or  character  in  which  they  admire 
her  most.  To  them  she  is  always  the  same,  al 
ways  perfect,  a  picture,  a  memory.  How  dis 
appointed  those  dream  lovers  would  be  if  they 


284  SPRING  STREET 

could  suddenly  be  brought  face  to  face  with 
the  player  as  she  really  is,  with  her  little  vani 
ties  and  human  frailties." 

"Disappointed  or  disillusioned,  which?"  he 
asked. 

"You  are  right,"  she  replied,  "they  would 
be  disillusioned  rather  than  disappointed. 
There  is  a  difference.  For  instance,  I  would  be 
disappointed  rather  than  disillusioned  in  Reg 
gie  if  he  should  blunder  and  miss  his  oppor 
tunity  of  becoming  mayor  of  Los  Angeles." 

Her  words  struck  him  like  a  blow.  They 
brought  to  him  the  realization  again  that  she 
faced  a  disillusionment  of  which  she  had  no 
warning.  How  could  he  save  her  from  it? 
Would  she  go  on  believing  in  Gibson?  It 
would  be  like  her  to  defend  him  until  the  last, 
to  go  with  him  to  a  place  where  his  disgrace 
was  not  known  and  begin  life  all  over  again. 

"Suppose,"  he  said,  watching  her  intently, 
"that  it  was  not  disappointment  but  disillusion 


ment." 


"You  mean — in  Reggie?"  she  asked,  ap 
parently  unable  to  comprehend  what  he  had 
said. 

Unable  to  speak  the  word,  he  nodded.  She 
laughed  lightly  and  he  forced  himself  to 
smile. 

"I  know  him  too  well  to  ever  be  disillu 
sioned,"  she  said. 


SPRING  STREET  285 

"Love,  they  say,   is  blind,"  he  ventured. 

"I  know  his  faults  as  I  do  mine,"  she  said 
slowly,  "and  love  him  for  them.  You  see, 
we've  known  each  other  since  we  were  chil 
dren." 

He  could  not  reply.  The  awfulness  of  the 
truth  dumbed  him  and  an  impetuous  desire  to 
protect  her  swept  through  him.  But  he  was 
powerless,  helpless.  A  wild  idea  of  sacrific 
ing  his  loyalty  to  his  paper  by  warning  Gibson 
of  the  impending  exposure  of  his  perfidy  so 
that  he  might  renounce  "Gink"  Cummings  and 
be  worthy  of  Consuello's  love  flashed  in  and 
out  of  his  brain. 

His  silence  seemed  to  mystify  her.  When 
she  spoke  it  was  as  though  she  might  have  a 
vague  premonition  of  his  confused  thoughts. 

"But  there's  no  need  for  my  having  an  ap 
prehension  that  he  will  blunder,  is  there?"  she 
asked. 

"We  all  make  mistakes,"  he  said,  con 
scientiously  trying  to  assure  her.  He  realized, 
however,  that  his  answer  sounded  evasive  and 
fearful  of  further  questioning  he  added,  has 
tily,  "His  election  is  conceded  by  everyone." 

They  rose  from  the  table.  To  "Mother" 
Graham,  perched  on  a  stool  behind  a  cash 
register  near  the  door,  he  paid  for  their  din 
ner  and  they  stepped  out  into  the  street. 
Night  had  descended  quickly.  The  cool,  re- 


286  SPRING  STREET 

freshing  breeze  from  the  ocean  that  tem 
pers  the  warmth  of  the  day  was  coming  in 
gently,  caressingly,  soothingly  from  the  west, 
and  worries  fled  away  with  it  like  dead  leaves 
whisked  from  the  trees. 

During  the  pre-view,  which  lasted  an  hour 
and  a  half,  John  had  but  few  chances  to  con 
verse  with  Consuello,  She  was  busy  with  Bon- 
wit,  the  director,  and  a  half  dozen  others 
whom  John  decided  were  the  technicians  whose 
business  it  was  to  revise  the  film  before  it  was 
released.  They  sat  grouped  in  a  semi-circle 
and  several  times  certain  scenes  were  flashed 
on  the  screen  repeatedly  for  closer  observation. 

The  girl  he  saw  on  the  screen  was  much 
more  like  Consuello  in  real  life  than  the  girl 
he  had  seen  before  the  camera.  The  make-up 
that  had  transformed  her  features  for  her  part 
in  the  picture  was  indiscernible  on  the  screen 
and  marvelously  the  real  Consuello  was  before 
him.  The  "close-up"  for  which  she  had  posed 
alone,  holding  the  bouquet  of  daisies,  was  even 
prettier  than  it  had  been  when  she  enacted  it. 
He  realized  now  what  were  the  results  sought 
by  the  camera  men  in  shifting  the  reflectors. 
Like  a  halo,  sunlight  shone  around  her  face, 
through  the  loose  tresses  of  her  hair,  giving 
it  an  ethereal  appearance. 

So  intently  did  he  study  every  move,  every 
expression  of  Consuello's  on  the  screen  that  he 


SPRING  STREET  287 

had  completely  overlooked  the  story  of  the 
photoplay.  The  scene  in  which  the  actor  em 
braced  Consuello  and  gazed  fervently  heaven 
ward  was  far  more  impressive  than  it  had  been 
when  it  was  enacted  and  the  "close-up"  of  his 
features,  over  her  shoulder,  John  decided  was 
really  an  excellent  bit  of  facial  expression. 

When  the  pre-view  was  completed  and  the 
lights  were  flashed  on  again  in  the  small  room, 
Consuello  came  directly  to  him. 

"Now,  what  do  you  think  of  /Jean  Hope,' 
do  you  like  her?"  she  asked. 

"I  adore  her,"  he  said,  without  restraint. 

The  almost  timid  look  of  incredulousness  he 
remembered  having  noticed  when  he  told  her 
she  was  beautiful  at  the  Barton  Randolph  lawn 
fete  came  into  her  eyes.  For  a  fraction  of  a 
second  they  looked  into  each  other's  faces  and 
something  that  she  saw  told  her  that  his  adora 
tion  was  not  only  for  the  image  of  herself  that 
he  had  seen  upon  the  screen.  She  caught  her 
underlip  between  her  teeth  and  looked  down. 

"We  can  go  now,"  she  said,  a  note  in  her 
voice  that  he  had  never  heard  before. 

They  did  not  speak  as  they  walked  toward 
the  gates  of  the  studio  and  it  was  then  he  real 
ized  that  he  loved  her.  In  that  moment  he 
was  transported  to  an  indescribable  happiness. 
She  seemed  a  fairy  creature  at  his  side,  too 
beautiful  to  touch,  too  wonderful  to  speak  to. 


288  SPRING  STREET 

An  automobile  stopped  beside  them.  Bon- 
wit,  at  the  wheel,  leaned  out  over  the  side. 

"Can't  I  give  you  two  a  lift  home?"  he 
asked. 

John  looked  toward  Consuello  and  heard 
her  say: 

"No,  thanks;  it's  only  a  few  blocks  home 
and  we'll  walk — it's  such  a — a — a  glorious 
night." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

CONSUELLO  was  the  first  to  speak  as 
they  passed  through  the  studio  gateway 
to  the  sidewalk  overhung  by  the  drooping 
branches  of  tall  pepper  trees. 

"It's  not  far,"  she  said. 

The  words  awoke  John  from  his  enthrall- 
ment  and  she  saw  by  his  glance  toward  her 
that  he  did  not  comprehend  their  meaning. 

"It's  not  far  to  the  house,"  she  explained. 
Not  far!  He  wished  it  were  miles  away,  that 
they  might  walk  on  together  for  hours. 

"I  could  not  bear  being  cramped  up  in  an 
apartment,"  she  added.  "When  it  became  nec 
essary  for  me  to  find  some  place  to  live  in  Los 
Angeles,  a  dear  friend — you  must  meet  her — 
and  I  hunted  up  this  little  place  for  our  home. 
It  wasn't  much  to  look  at  when  we  found  it, 
but  we  have  made  it  over  to  suit  us  and  we 
have  both  grown  to  love  it." 

"Your  friend — is  she  in  pictures,  too?"  he 
asked. 

"Betty  is  an  artist,"  she  replied.  "She  de 
signs  sets  and  costumes  for  pictures  and  she 
is  wonderful.  She  knows  everything  about  her 
work,  more  than  anyone  else  in  Hollywood, 
they  say.  She  deserves  all  the  credit  for  turn 
ing  our  little  home  into  a  dream  place." 


290  SPRING  STREET 

"You  will  miss  her  when "  he  found 

himself  unable  to  finish  the  sentence,  "you  are 
married." 

"Yes,"  she  said.  'Til  miss  her  and  our  lit 
tle  home.  Really,  I  don't  believe  I  will  know 
how  to  act  if  I  become  the  wife  of  the  mayor 
of  Los  Angeles.  I  have  grown  to  detest  for 
mality,  dances  and  dinners  and  receptions  and 
things.  If  there  is  one  thing  Reggie  and  I 
will  quarrel  about  that  will  be  it.  He  has  al 
ways  been  invited  everywhere  and  he  enjoys 
the  niceness  of  conventionality." 

He  was  glad  that  there  was  not  complete 
compatibility  between  her  and  Gibson.  It  was 
selfish  and  wrong  for  him  to  rejoice  that  she 
and  Gibson  were  not  perfectly  suited  in  their 
likes  and  dislikes  and  he  knew  it,  but  neverthe 
less  it  gladdened  him. 

"I  nearly  died  of  fright  that  day  at  the  lawn 
fete,  when  I  met  you,"  he  said.  "I  believe  I 
would  have  done  something  disgraceful  to 
that  servant  who  was  asking  me  to  leave  if  you 
hadn't  appeared." 

"You  told  me  you  thought  Reggie  to  be  a 
villain,"  she  reminded  him,  laughing.  "You 
don't  think  him  one  now,  do  you?" 

How  close  he  came  to  telling  her  then  what 
he  had  reason  to  believe  Gibson  actually  was, 
a  villain  beyond  all  understanding,  she  never 
knew. 


SPRING  STREET  291 

"No,"  he  lied. 

She  stopped  at  a  gateway  formed  by  a  gap 
in  a  hedge  of  spicy  scented  boxwood  that  paral 
leled  the  sidewalk. 

"Here  we  are,"  she  said,  turning  in. 

He  saw  a  rose-shaded  light  in  the  window 
of  a  small  house  set  far  back  from  the  street. 

"Betty  is  waiting  for  me,"  she  explained. 
"I  want  you  to  meet  her." 

On  each  side  of  the  pathway  leading  back 
to  the  house  was  a  rose  garden  with  the  bushes 
set  at  precise  intervals.  The  rose  garden 
ended  half  way  back  from  the  sidewalk.  Be 
fore  the  house,  for  the  entire  width  of  the  lot 
and  a  dozen  paces  deep,  was  closely  cropped 
grass.  Flat  stones,  set  into  the  lawn  like  the 
footprints  of  an  elephant,  provided  an  artistic 
path  to  the  door,  which  was  massive  in  size 
and  of  unfinished  stained  oak.  The  flanges 
of  the  hinges  were  of  beaten  iron  held  in  place 
by  studded  bolts.  A  quaint  knocker  was  above 
the  handle  to  the  latch. 

"You'll  pardon  me  for  a  moment?"  Consu- 
ello  asked,  opening  the  door  and  stepping  in 
side,  returning  a  moment  later  to  hold  it  open 
for  him  to  enter. 

The  room  was  exceptionally  large,  with 
rafters  across  the  ceiling.  At  one  end  was  a 
huge  fireplace  and  rugs  were  scattered  over  a 
smooth  but  unpolished  floor.  Betty  rose  from 


292  SPRING  STREET 

an  easy  chair  as  he  entered.  She  had  been 
reading.  John  saw  that  she  was  slender,  dark- 
eyed,  rather  pretty. 

"Betty,  this  is  Mr.  Gallant,"  said  Consuello 
by  way  of  an  introduction. 

"Consuello  has  spoken  of  you,  often,"  said 
Betty,  advancing  with  a  friendly  smile  and  an 
outstretched  hand.  Mentally  John  thanked 
her  for  the  words.  He  knew  instinctively  that 
he  would  like  her  and  that  she  would  be  a 
friend  to  him. 

"Miss  Carrillo  has  been  more  than  kind  to 
me,"  he  said.  "I  often  wonder  why  she  is," 
he  added,  returning  Betty's  smile. 

"She  likes  you,"  said  Betty,  with  a  frankness 
that  startled  him  a  little.  He  glanced  toward 
Consuello  and  saw  that  she  was  regarding 
Betty  with  an  amused  look. 

Betty  moved  toward  a  door  at  the  side  of 
the  room. 

"Will  you  care  if  I  leave  you?"  she  said. 
"Please  do  not  think  it  rudeness.  I  have  been 
doing  a  little  studying  which  I  must  finish  to 
night  and " 

"I'm  intruding,  I  know,"  interrupted  John. 

"You're  not,"  she  remonstrated  with  the 
candidness  that  John  found  later  was  so  engag 
ing.  Her  smile  overcame  his  temporary  em 
barrassment.  "I'll  see  you  again,  I'm  sure," 
she  added,  nodding  slightly  before  she  stepped 


SPRING  STREET  293 

into  the  other  room,  closing  the  door  behind 
her. 

"What  do  you  think  of  our  little  home?" 
Consuello  asked  as  he  turned  toward  her.  She 
was  seated  in  the  chair  Betty  had  left. 

"It's  like  you,"  he  said,  feeling  free  to  take 
the  chair  near  her.  "It  is  so  genuinely — beau 
tiful."  This  time  he  felt  no  hesitancy  in  say 
ing  it. 

"And  what  of  it  do  you  like  best  of  all?" 
she  asked  quickly. 

He  looked  around  the  room  slowly  until  his 
eyes  rested  on  a  wide  casement  window  open 
ing  out  over  a  deep  sill  on  which  blood-red 
geraniums  nestling  in  the  rich  green  foliage  of 
the  plant,  grew  in  a  box.  Faintly,  against  the 
skyline  as  he  looked  through  this  window  he 
saw  the  curving  outline  of  a  hill.  The  window 
panes,  swung  inward,  were  divided  into  small 
squares  by  the  crosspieces. 

"That,"  he  said,  without  turning  his  eyes 
from  the  window. 

"I  knew ."  She  hesitated.  He  glanced 

toward  her  inquiringly.  "I  knew  you  would," 
she  said.  "That  is  my  window.  The  hill  you 
see  from  it  is  my  hill.  Did  you  ever  read  the 
verse  by  Martha  Haskell  Clark  that  inspired 
the  designing  of  that  window?" 

He  shook  his  head.  She  rose  and  crossed 
to  the  window  and  stood  framed  to  her  waist- 


294  SPRING  STREET 

line  in  the  outer  casement.  She  looked  out  into 
the  night,  toward  "her"  hill,  the  fingers  of  one 
hand  touching  the  petals  of  one  of  the  crimson 
blossoms.  Softly  she  recited: 

"Life  did  not  bring  me  silken  gowns, 

Nor  jewels  for  my  hair, 
Nor  sight  of  gabled,  foreign  towns 

In  distant  countries  fair, 
But  I  can  glimpse,  beyond  my  pane,  a  green 

and  friendly  hill, 

And  red  geraniums  aflame  upon  my  window- 
sill. 

"The  brambled  cares  of  everyday, 

The  tiny  humdrum  things, 
May  bind  my  feet  when  they  would  stray, 

But  still  my  heart  has  wings, 
While  red  geraniums  are  bloomed  against  my 

window-glass, 

And    low    above    my    green-sweet    hill    the 
gypsy  wind-clouds  pass. 

"And  if  my  dreamings  ne'er  come  true, 

The  brightest  and  the  best, 
But  leave  me  lone  my  journey  through, 

I'll  set  my  heart  at  rest, 
And  thank  Thee,  God,  for  home-sweet  things, 

a  green  and  friendly  hill, 
And  red  geraniums  aflame  upon  my  window- 
sill." 


SPRING  STREET  295 

He  gazed  into  the  empty  fireplace  as  the 
words  of  the  verse  sang  through  his  mind. 

"But  still  my  heart  has  wings,"  "Gypsy  wind- 
clouds,"  "And  if  my  dreamings  ne'er  come 
true  .  .  .  I'll  set  my  heart  at  rest." 

He  mused  over  them.  His  heart  had  wings 
to  soar  high  with  his  soul  in  the  ecstasy  of  his 
new-found  love.  And  if  his  dreaming  never 
came  true,  could  he  set  his  heart  at  rest? 

Or,  her  dreams,  her  expectation  of  happi 
ness  with  Gibson — when  they  were  shattered, 
could  she  set  her  heart  at  rest  and  thank  her 
God  for  "home-sweet  things,"  her  "green  and 
friendly  hill,  and  red  geraniums  aflame  upon 
her  window-sill"? 

He  looked  up  from  the  ashes  of  the  fire 
place,  where  flames  had  sparkled  to  cheer  and 
comfort  her.  She  was  still  looking  out  toward 
her  "green  and  friendly"  hill  and  the  listless- 
ness  of  her  outline  told  him  that  she,  too,  was 
musing.  He  longed  to  know  her  thoughts. 

Very  slowly  she  turned  her  face  toward  him. 
There  was  a  suggestion  of  somberness  in  her 
eyes  as  she  looked  down  at  him. 

"I  arranged  this  window  just  for  that,"  she 
said. 

"Why  did  you  know  I  would  choose  it  as 
the  part  of  the  room  I  liked  best?"  he  asked. 

"Because  I've  found  we  both  love  the  simple 
things,  the  'home-sweet'  things,  the  enduring 
things  of  life,"  she  answered. 


296  SPRING  STREET 

"Is  that  why  you  have  been  so  kind  to  me?" 

"Please  don't  think  of  it  as  kindness,"  she 
said.  She  was  back  in  the  chair  she  had  left 
to  stand  beside  the  window.  "That  is  why  I 
have  arranged  to  see  you  as  often  as  I  have,  if 
that  is  what  you  mean." 

An  impulse  overwhelmed  his  self-imposed 
restraint. 

"If  anything  ever  happens  to  cause  you  to 
have  doubt  in  me,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "will 
you  try  to  believe  that  I  did  what  I  thought 
was  right?" 

The  nature  of  his  question,  its  suddenness, 
astonished  her.  She  moved  her  lips  to  speak. 

"Don't  ask  me  why  I  asked  you  that,"  he 
said,  "but  promise  me,  promise  me,  that  you'll 
do  your  best  to  think  of  me  as  doing  what  I 
believed  was  right." 

"I'm  bewildered,  but  you  have  my  promise," 
she  answered. 

The  clock  on  the  mantel  above  the  fireplace 
chimed  midnight.  He  rose. 

"I  have  been  thoughtless,"  he  said.  "I  had 
forgotten  the  time." 

She  walked  with  him  to  the  door. 

"Good-night,"  he  said,  "and  thank  you." 

"Good-night,"  she  said,  dropping  the  hand 
she  had  given  him  to  her  side. 

He  strode  out  into  the  night.  Subconsciously 
he  waited  for  the  door  to  close  behind  him. 


SPRING  STREET  297 

Each  step  took  him  farther  toward  the  street 
and  yet  he  did  not  hear  the  click  of  the  latch. 

At  the  sidewalk  he  turned  to  look  back. 

She  was  standing,  framed  in  the  soft  light 
shining  through  the  doorway,  looking  out  at 
him.  He  waved  his  hand.  He  saw  her  hand 
flutter  and  then  the  door  closed. 

"  'Still  my  heart  has  wings,'  "  he  repeated 
to  himself  as  he  turned  away. 
***** 

The  primary  election  was  only  two  weeks 
away.  Gibson,  with  the  powerful  combination 
of  organizations  behind  him,  was  swinging  into 
the  final  lap  of  his  campaign  with  unabated 
success.  That  he  would  snow  the  mayor  under 
at  the  primary  was  conceded  everywhere.  Fac 
ing  humiliation  in  the  most  decisive  defeat  in 
the  history  of  the  city  the  mayor's  organiza 
tion  dwindled  down  to  a  few  never-say-die  sup 
porters  whose  activities  were  almost  laughable 
in  the  prospect  of  Gibson's  overwhelming  vic 
tory  at  the  polls.  To  the  list  of  organizations 
indorsing  the  police  commissioner  was  added 
the  Anti-Saloon  league. 

Seeking  corroboration  of  the  story  told  them 
by  "Big  Jim"  Hatch,  which  they  had  in  affi 
davit  form  from  "Big  Jim"  and  Mrs.  Hatch, 
John  and  Brennan  visited  the  downtown  apart 
ment  house  where  "Gink"  Cummings  resided 
and  where  Hatch  claimed  to  have  seen  Gib- 


298  SPRING  STREET 

son.  Cautiously  they  questioned  the  janitor, 
the  clerk  at  the  desk,  the  elevator  boy  and  even 
the  proprietor  without  success.  None  of  them 
had  ever  seen  a  man  answering  Gibson's  de 
scription  enter  the  building. 

"Probably  the  time  Hatch  saw  Gibson  at 
Cummings'  apartment  was  the  only  time  Gib 
son  ever  visited  the  'Gink'  there,  and,  because 
it  was  late  at  night,  no  one  happened  to  see 
him,"  said  Brennan.  "It  is  beginning  to  look 
as  though  we'll  have  to  tap  either  Gibson's 
or  Cummings'  telephone  if  the  'chief  wants  to 
go  that  far." 

Then,  late  one  afternoon,  John  received  a 
telephone  call  from  Murphy. 

"Meet  me  tonight  at  Second  and  Spring," 
said  Murphy.  "I  got  somethin'  for  ya,  see?" 

"Is  it  worth  while?"  asked  John. 

"I'm  not  sayin'  nothin'  now,  see?"  said 
Murphy.  "Just  be  there  at  ten  bells,  see?" 

"We'll  be  there,"  John  told  him. 

"I  wonder  what  he's  stumbled  across?" 
said  Brennan  when  John  informed  him  of  their 
appointment  to  meet  Murphy. 

"I  asked  him  and  he  wasn't  sayin'  nothin', 
see?"  said  John. 

"Don't,"  pleaded  Brennan,  "you'll  have  me 
doing  it." 

That  night  at  a  few  minutes  of  ten  they  were 
standing  on  the  steps  of  the  entrance  to  the 


SPRING  STREET  299 

Bryson  block  when  Murphy,  his  peaked  cap 
pulled  down  far  over  his  eyes  and  his  coat 
collar  turned  up  close  around  his  throat,  sidled 
up  to  them. 

"What's  the  big 'idea  of  covering  up  your 
face,  Murphy?"  asked  Brennan. 

"I'm  takin'  no  chances  of  gettin'  'made,' 
see?"  Murphy  answered.  "Made,"  John  re 
membered,  was  the  slang  of  detectives  for 
identification.  When  a  person  was  "made"  he 
was  identified. 

"Well,  then,  what's  the  program?"  asked 
Brennan. 

"I  think  I  got  them,"  Murphy  replied. 

"Got  who?" 

"De  'Gink'  and  dis  bird  Gibson." 

"How?" 

"Meetin'  each  other." 

"The  hell  you  say!"  Brennan  ejaculated. 
"Have  you  seen  them  together?" 

"Well  if  de  bird  I  figure  is  Gibson  is  him, 
I  got  'em,  see?" 

"Where?"  demanded  Brennan. 

"De  Gallant  kid  here  knows  de  place,"  said 
Murphy.  "Remember  da  room  where  ya  got 
paid  off  when  ya  got  pinched  in  de  handbook 
raid?" 

John  nodded. 

"Dat's  da  joint." 

John  recalled  the  windowless  cubby-hole  in 


300  SPRING  STREET 

the  rear  of  the  Spring  street  saloon  where 
"Slim"  Gray,  Cummings'  lieutenant,  had  re 
turned  to  him  the  $10  he  had  put  up  in  bail 
and  $10  as  compensation  for  having  been  on 
hand  when  Gibson  made  the  sensational  raid. 

"Murphy,"  said  Brennan,  "just  start  in  at 
the  beginning  and  tell  us  about  this  and  please 
don't  put  any  more  'sees'  into  it  than  you  abso 
lutely  have  to." 

"Well,  here's  da  stuff.  Da  other  night  I'm 
comin'  in  late  from  da  fights  at  Vernon,  see? 
I'm  between  Main  and  Spring,  see?  when  I 
make  a  bird  standin'  all  by  his  lonesome  at  da 
entrance  to  da  alley.  Dis  bird  is  kinda  ner 
vous  and  jumpy-like,  see?  and  I  figure  he 
might  be  a  stick-up.  I  ain't  got  no  jack  with 
me,  so  I  keeps  on  walkin'  right  at  him,  see? 

"Well,  I'm  about  twenty  feet  from  him,  see? 
when  I  make  another  bird  crossin'  tha  street 
toward  him.  When  I  get  up  to  them,  see? 
they're  just  about  to  meet,  see?" 

"Murphy,"  interrupted  Brennan,  "for  heav 
en's  sake  forget  those  'sees.'  ' 

Murphy  grinned  and  went  on. 

"Well,  just  as  dese  two  birds  meet  I  get 
a  flash  of  da  mug  of  da  guy  dat  crosses  da 
street,  se " 

"Go  ahead,  say  'see'  all  you  want  to,"  said 
Brennan  impatiently. 


SPRING  STREET  301 

"I  get  a  flash  of  da  bird's  mug,  see?  and  I 
make  him,  see?  It  was  da  'Gink,'  see?  I  try 
to  make  da  other  bird,  but  he  turns  into  the 
alley  quick,  see?  Well,  I  keep  right  on  my 
way  and  then  come  back,  see?  I  stick  my  nut 
around  da  corner  of  da  building  and  watches 
them.  They  hurry  down  da  alley,  see?  and 
ducks  in  a  door. 

"Well,  I'm  not  takin'  no  chances  of  gettin' 
plugged,  see?  so  I  don't  follow  them.  I  just 
hang  around  for  an  hour  and  waits  for  them 
to  come  out  again,  see  ?  When  they  come  out 
da  door  I  spot  it  and  duck  back  into  a  shadow. 
They  pass  me  so  close  I  could  a  touched  'em, 
see?  but  it  was  dark  and  I  don't  get  no  chance 
to  make  da  bird  with  da  'Gink.'  Well,  they 
go  up  toward  Spring  street  and  I  trail  them 
far  enough  to  see  them  get  in  a  bus,  see?" 

"What  did  this  fellow  with  the  'Gink'  look 
like?"  asked  John,  quickly. 

"I'm  tellin'  ya  I  didn't  get  no  chance  to 
make  him,"  said  Murphy.  "All  I'm  able  to 
get  is  that  he's  tall  and  black-haired,  see?" 

"What  kind  of  a  hat  did  he  wear?" 

"Straw." 

"It's  Gibson,  all  right,"  snapped  Brennan. 
John's  nerves  tingled  throughout  his  body.  A 
picture  of  Gibson  as  he  was  when  he  first  saw 
him  flashed  into  his  mind.  He  saw  the  com- 


302  SPRING  STREET 

missioner's  perfectly  moulded  hair,  black  and 
shiny;  he  saw  his  neat  straw  hat  in  his  lap. 

"Dat's  what  I  figured,"  said  Murphy.  uSo 
last  night  I  find  a  place  near  da  door  I  seen 
them  go  in  and  waits  for  them,  see?  I  wait  all 
night,  but  nobody  shows  up.  I  figures  dat  if 
it's  Gibson  meetin'  da  'Gink'  you  boys  will 
want  to  be  in  on  it,  see?  I  know  dat  joint  like 
it's  my  own,  see?" 

"We  see,  Murphy,  perfectly,"  interposed 
Brennan. 

"So,  I  know  there's  a  basement,  see?  While 
I'm  waitin'  I  take  a  chance  and  work  da  lock 
on  da  basement  door,  see?  It's  a  padlock  and 
I  cop  it,  see?  This  mornin'  I  get  a  friend  to 
make  a  key  for  it,  see?  and  this  afternoon  I 
slip  it  back  where  it  belongs." 

"Murphy,"  said  Brennan,  "you're  a  wonder. 
Where's  the  key?" 

Murphy  reached  into  his  pocket  and  pro 
duced  it.  Brennan  glanced  at  his  watch. 

"What  time  was  it  when  you  saw  Cummings 
and  this  other  fellow?"  he  asked. 

"I  figure  it  was  between  twelve  and  one," 
replied  Murphy. 

"Good!"  Brennan  exclaimed.  "It's  half 
past  ten  now.  We'll  get  down  there  and  get 
the  lay  of  the  land  in  that  basement.  They 
may  go  there  again,  tonight." 


SPRING  STREET  303 

They  walked  rapidly  toward  the  alley-way 
where  Murphy  had  recognized  "Gink"  Cum- 
mings  when  he  met  the  man  they  suspected  was 
Gibson.  Spring  street  was  beginning  to  be 
come  deserted  for  the  night.  Little  groups  of 
men  and  women  from  the  theaters  waited  at 
the  corners  for  street  cars.  A  peanut  and 
candy  peddler  pushed  his  cart  wearily  along 
the  street,  close  to  the  curb,  plodding  his  way 
home.  The  proprietor  of  an  open  front  fruit 
stand  struggled  with  the  folding  iron  fence 
pulled  across  the  entrance  to  his  store  for  pro 
tection  of  his  wares  until  morning. 

They  turned  into  the  alley-way  in  single  file, 
Murphy  leading,  Brennan  next  and  John  act 
ing  as  a  voluntary  rear  guard.  The  narrow 
alley,  like  the  bottom  of  a  canyon  with  walls 
of  brick,  was  darker  than  the  streets.  In  the 
middle  of  the  block  Murphy  seemed  to  disap 
pear  into  the  earth.  Then  Brennan  dropped 
from  sight.  John  was  startled  momentarily 
until  he  found  that  they  had  descended  a  steep 
stairway,  covered  with  trash  and  old  papers. 
Murphy  unlocked  the  padlock  and  the  door 
creaked  inward  on  rusty  hinges.  They  sidled 
through  it,  fearful  that  the  squeaking  might 
betray  them. 

Inside  it  was  pitch  dark.  John  was  unable 
to  see  the  faces  of  Brennan  and  Murphy,  al 
though  their  elbows  touched. 


304  SPRING  STREET 

"I'll  wait  here  and  keep  a  lookout,"  said 
Murphy.  "Here's  a  torch  and  go  easy  with 
it."  He  handed  Brennan  an  electric  pocket 
torch. 

"Murphy,  you're  a  wonder,  see?"  said  Bren 
nan  as  he  flashed  on  the  light,  pointing  it  to 
his  feet  as  he  moved  slowly  forward. 

A  pungent  odor  of  stale  beer  from  empty 
kegs  piled  against  the  walls  mingled  with  that 
damp  smell  peculiar  to  underground  places. 
Cobwebs  tickled  their  faces  as  they  walked 
through  the  seldom  used  path  between  the  kegs 
and  packing  boxes.  The  small  arc  of  light 
from  the  electric  torch  danced  ahead  of  them 
as  John  and  Brennan  inspected  their  surround 
ings.  At  the  end  of  the  basement  for  a  length 
of  twenty-five  yards  back  from  the  wall  under 
the  street,  they  found  a  space  cleared  of  the 
boxes  and  kegs.  On  one  side  was  a  broad, 
steep  stairway  leading  up  to  a  trapdoor  in  the 
floor  above. 

They  could  hear  the  voices  of  men  in  the 
room  over  their  heads  and  a  scuffling  of  feet 
that  told  them  the  soft  drink  and  lunch  estab 
lishment,  into  which  the  old  saloon  had  been 
converted,  had  not  been  closed  down  for  the 
night.  Their  inspection  completed,  they  re 
turned  to  Murphy,  standing  guard  at  the  door 
way  on  the  alley.  After  Murphy  had  snapped 
the  padlock  shut  they  crawled  up  to  the  alley 


SPRING  STREET  305 

again  and  he  led  them  to  a  space  between  two 
buildings  less  than  four  feet  in  width,  into 
which  they  crowded  themselves. 

"We  can  spot  them  from  here  when  they 
go  by,  see?"  Murphy  explained. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A/flDNIGHT. 

*•**•  For  more  than  an  hour  they  had  re 
mained  in  their  cramped  hiding  place,  waiting. 
Brennan  smoked  innumerable  cigarettes  while 
they  talked  in  whispers.  A  policeman  had 
walked  through  the  alley  peering  into  the  shad 
ows  and  they  had  crouched  breathless  until  he 
passed  them. 

The  noise  of  the  city  had  quieted.  Except 
for  an  occasional  street  car  or  passing  automo 
bile  a  silence  brooded  over  the  downtown  dis 
trict.  Stray  cats  appeared  to  rummage  in 
battered  cans  and  a  huge  rat  darted  between 
their  legs. 

The  cool  of  the  night,  Southern  California's 
balm  to  aid  sleep  "knit  up  the  raveled  sleeve 
of  care,"  chilled  them.  Murphy  took  frequent 
"nips"  from  a  flask,  which  he  offered  gener 
ously  to  his  companions  each  time  before  he. 
put  it  to  his  mouth.  Brennan  told  them  stories 
of  experiences  in  the  Canadian  northwest  and 
adventures  in  a  "comic  opera"  revolution  in 
Central  America.  Murphy  supplied  anecdotes 
of  the  ring,  things  he  had  seen  and  done  as 
a  second  at  boxing  matches.  John  listened  to 
them,  enraptured, 


SPRING  STREET  307 

Somewhere  a  clock  struck  the  half  hour,  and 
as  the  sound  died  away  they  heard  quick  foot 
steps  approaching  them.  Murphy  looked  cau 
tiously  around  the  corner  of  the  brick  wall  and 
brought  himself  back  with  a  jerk. 

"It's  them,"  he  said,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 
He  stepped  back  to  make  room  for  John  and 
Brennan  at  the  narrow  aperture  looking  out 
on  the  alley. 

Two  figures  passed  their  hiding  place,  walk 
ing  hurriedly.  The  taller  of  the  two  strode 
with  a  quick,  easy  step  that  John  recognized. 

''That's  Gibson,"  he  said  in  a  sharp  whisper. 

"It  certainly  is,"  corroborated  Brennan. 
"And  it's  the  'Gink'  with  him." 

They  watched  the  figures  until  they  halted 
at  the  rear  of  the  saloon.  They  saw  Cum- 
mings  reach  in  his  pocket  for  the  key  and  open 
the  door  while  Gibson  glanced  up  and  down 
the  alley.  When  they  had  disappeared  into 
the  building  Brennan  stepped  out  into  the 
alley,  motioning  to  Murphy  and  John  to  fol 
low  him. 

Again  in  single  file,  with  Murphy  taking  the 
lead  from  Brennan,  they  walked  warily  toward 
the  saloon,  holding  close  to  the  back  walls  of 
buildings  so  as  not  to  be  seen  from  either  end 
of  the  alley.  Murphy  removed  the  padlock 
from  the  basement  door  and  opened  it  with 
precautionary  slowness  to  minimize  the  rasp- 


308  SPRING  STREET 

ing  of  the  rusty  hinges.  He  closed  it  again 
when  they  had  entered  the  impenetrable  dark 
ness  of  the  basement. 

Led  by  Murphy,  who  held  the  flashlight, 
they  went  ahead  on  tiptoe  until  they  reached 
a  spot  which  they  judged  was  directly  beneath 
the  little  room  in  which  they  believed  Cum- 
mings  and  Gibson  were  in  surreptitious  confer 
ence.  There  they  strained  their  ears  to  catch 
the  sound  of  voices  above  them.  John's  heart 
thumped  against  his  ribs  and  he  imagined  his 
breathing  sounded  like  a  gust  of  wind.  The 
floor  of  the  room  above  was  less  than  three 
feet  above  their  heads. 

A  chair  scraped  on  the  floor.  Then  they 
heard  voices.  Tense,  holding  their  breath, 
they  poised  in  utter  silence,  straining  to  distin 
guish  what  was  being  said  by  the  two  in  the 
room  above  their  heads.  John  felt  a  sinking 
sensation  of  disappointment  as  he  realized  it 
would  be  impossible  for  them  to  hear  the 
conversation  between  the  "Gink"  and  Gibson 
from  where  they  were  listening.  The  voices 
that  came  down  to  them  were  jumbled,  faint, 
indistinguishable.  Once  Gibson  laughed.  Again 
the  two  voices  above  them  stopped  suddenly 
as  if  the  two  conspirators  had  heard  a  warn 
ing  sound. 

Brennan  signaled  to  them  a  moment  later, 
when  the  two  voices  were  audible  again,  to 


SPRING  STREET  309 

leave.  Murphy  snapped  the  padlock  on  the 
door  and  they  crept  back  to  their  hiding  place 
between  the  two  buildings. 

"There  was  no  need  for  us  to  stay  there 
any  longer,"  said  Brennan.  "We  couldn't  hear 
a  word.  There's  only  one  way  to  get  what 
we  want  and  that  is  to  use  a  dictograph.  We'll 
have  to  run  a  wire  with  an  'ear'  on  it  into  that 
room,  somehow.  Do  you  think  we  can  do  it, 
Murphy?" 

"Sure  thing,"  Murphy  replied. 

"The  sooner  the  better,"  said  Brennan. 
"We'll  try  to  get  it  in  tomorrow  night.  With 
a  dictograph  we  can  get  every  word  that's  said. 
We  can  bring  a  shorthand  reporter  with  us 
and  get  it  down  in  black  and  white.  In  the 
meantime  we'll  wait  here  and  see  them  when 
they  come  out." 

Shortly  before  one  o'clock  they  heard  foot 
steps  that  told  them  Gibson  and  Cummings 
were  returning  from  their  conference.  Di 
rectly  opposite  the  aperture  between  the  two 
buildings,  where  they  were  hiding,  the  taller 
of  the  two  figures  stopped  and  striking  a  match 
held  the  flame,  cupped  in  his  two  hands,  to  the 
end  of  a  cigar.  The  light  of  the  match  flick 
ered  only  for  a  second,  but  in  that  time  John 
and  Brennan  saw  Gibson's  face  clearly.  Toss 
ing  the  burned  match  to  the  ground  he  quick 
ened  his  steps  until  he  was  again  at  Cummings' 


310  SPRING  STREET 

side  and  they  went  from  sight  around  the  cor 
ner. 

"He  couldn't  have  done  it  better  if  we  had 
asked  him  to,"  commented  Brennan,  referring 
to  the  light  Gibson  had  thrown  on  his  face  by 
lighting  the  match.  "I  wonder  what  he'd  do 
if  he  knew  that  we  were  watching  him  as  he 
did  it." 

"Swallowed  da  stogie,"  Murphy  suggested. 

"Tomorrow  night,  same  time  and  place:  10 
o'clock  at  Second  and  Spring,"  Brennan  in 
structed  Murphy  before  they  separated. 

"I'll  be  there,"  agreed  Murphy,  walking 
from  them. 

"Just  a  minute,  Murphy,"  called  Brennan, 
"you  forgot  something." 

Murphy  halted. 

"What?"  he  asked. 

"You  forgot  to  put  a  'see?'  on  the  end  of 
Til  be  there.'  ' 

Murphy  grinned,  waved  his  hand  and  went 
his  way. 

The  next  morning  after  only  a  few  hours' 
sleep,  John  and  Brennan  told  P.  Q.  and  the 
"chief"  of  their  discovery.  Brennan's  plan  for 
the  use  of  the  dictograph  was  approved  and 
they  were  commended  for  their  enterprise. 

"If  you  put  this  over,"  the  city  editor  told 
John,  "I'll  double  your  salary." 

It  was   P.   Q.  who   suggested  that  Benton, 


SPRING  STREET  3 1 1 

the  photographer,  accompany  them  and  en 
deavor  to  obtain  a  picture  of  Cummings  and 
Gibson  together. 

'That  would  cinch  it,"  he  said.  "If  we 
could  print  a  picture  of  Gibson  and  the  'Gink' 
it  would  be  irrefutable  proof  of  the  conspir 
acy." 

"It  would  be  risky  business;  might  spoil 
everything,"  Brennan  remonstrated. 

"Could  it  be  done  this  way?"  said  P.  Q. 
"While  you  and  Gallant  are  in  the  basement 
with  Murphy  and  a  shorthand  man,  Benton  can 
fix  himself  outside  the  door  so  that  when  Gib 
son  and  Cummings  come  out  he  can  shoot  a 
flashlight.  He  can  have  an  automobile  close 
and  make  a  quick  getaway  by  jumping  into  it. 
When  you  have  enough  of  the  conversation  be 
tween  Gibson  and  the  'Gink'  you  can  come  out 
side,  tip  Benton  to  be  ready  and  wait  for  him 
in  the  machine.  They  can't  chase  you.  By 
the  time  they  get  a  machine  you  should  be  a 
mile  away  from  them." 

"All  right,  P.  Q.,  we'll  try  it  that  way," 
agreed  Brennan.  "Benton  had  better  be  with 
us  tonight.  Whose  automobile  shall  we  use 
and  who'll  drive  it?  It  must  be  someone  we 
can  trust." 

"You  can  arrange  that  to  suit  yourselves," 
said  P.  Q. 

"Don't  be  afraid  to  spend  money,"  said  the 


312  SPRING  STREET 

publisher.  "It's  a  big  thing  you're  going  to 
do,  boys,  and  I  won't  forget  you,  whether  you 
succeed  or  not." 

That  afternoon  they  obtained  the  dicto 
graph.  It  was  loaned  them  by  Hubert  Kittle, 
aviator,  former  police  officer,  one-time  con 
tender  for  the  heavyweight  pugilistic  cham 
pionship  of  the  navy,  dare-devil  and  adven 
turer.  Later  in  the  day  Ben  Smith,  official 
court  reporter  and  one  of  the  fastest  and  most 
accurate  shorthand  men  in  the  country,  agreed 
to  share  in  their  adventure. 

"I'd  trust  Ben  with  my  life,"  Brennan  re 
marked  to  John  later.  "If  there  ever  was  a 
man  who  knew  how  to  keep  his  mouth  shut, 
it's  Ben.  Whenever  the  district  attorney's 
office  or  the  police  or  the  sheriff  have  some 
thing  really  big,  something  that  must  be  kept 
absolutely  secret,  they  call  him  in  and  he  never 
has  failed  them." 

"What  about  the  machine  and  the  driver?" 
John  asked. 

"That's  what  has  me  stumped,"  Brennan  ad 
mitted.  "Most  all  of  the  taxi  drivers  are  lined 
up  with  the  'Gink'  in  some  way  or  another.  We 
must  have  someone  we  can  not  only  rely  upon, 
but  who  can  drive.  Believe  me,  Gallant,  we 
can't  afford  to  take  any  chances." 

From  Ben  Smith's  office  in  the  Hall  of  Jus 
tice  building  they  went  to  the  city  hall  to  break 


SPRING  STREET  313 

the  news  of  their  discovery  of  the  meeting 
place  of  Gibson  and  Cummings  to  the  mayor. 
While  Brennan  was  telling  the  story  and  de 
scribing  how  they  had  planned  to  obtain  a 
written  report  of  the  conversation  between 
Gibson  and  the  "Gink"  by  use  of  the  dicto 
graph,  the  mayor  sat  perched  on  the  edge  of 
his  chair,  his  eyes  gleaming  with  pent-up  ex 
citement.  When  Brennan  had  finished  he 
bounced  up  and  circled  the  desk  with  quick 
strides  to  shake  them  both  by  the  hand. 

"You've  done  it,  boys,  you've  done  it,"  he 
said. 

Then  he  turned  his  face  from  them  and  drew 
a  handkerchief  from  his  pocket. 

"Don't  mind  me,"  he  said,  dabbing  with  the 
handkerchief  at  his  eyes.  "I'm  an  old  fool. 
But  I've  been  under  a  terrible  strain,  boys, 
these  last  few  weeks  and  what  you  told  me  was 
almost  too  good  to  be  true." 

He  turned  to  face  them  as  quickly  as  he  had 
turned  away,  and  he  was  smiling. 

"What  about  tonight?"  he  asked.  "Is  there 
anyway  I  can  help  you?  Are  you  all  fixed?" 

"All  we  need  is  a  fast  machine  and  a  good 
driver,"  said  Brennan.  "Someone  we  can  trust 
and  rely  upon.  Can  you  suggest  anyone?" 

"I  certainly  can,"  said  the  mayor. 

"Who?" 

The  mayor's  face  brightened. 


314  SPRING  STREET 

"The  mayor  of  Los  Angeles,"  he  said. 

"You  mean " 

"I  mean  it,"  assured  the  mayor.  "I  have 
the  fastest  car  that  can  be  bought  and  I'm  not 
afraid  to  step  on  it.  What  more  do  you 
want?" 

"It's  a  go !"  exclaimed  Brennan,  and  they 
shook  hands  all  around. 

John  long  remembered  the  meeting  between 
the  mayor  and  Murphy  when  they  assembled 
at  Second  and  Spring  streets  that  night  at  ten 
o'clock.  Oddly  it  was  the  mayor  who  was 
flustered  when  the  two  were  introduced  by 
Brennan,  probably  because  he  felt  he  owed  so 
much  to  the  scrawny  youth  who  stood  before 
him. 

"Murphy,  my  boy,  I — I — I  don't  know  how 
to  thank  you,"  the  mayor  began  and  then,  fear 
ing  that  sounded  too  stiff  and  formal,  he 
added,  "If  I'm  re-elected  it  will  be  largely  be 
cause  of  what  you've  done  and  you  can  have 
the  best  job  I've  got  to  offer." 

"I  got  my  own  reasons  for  doin'  what  I've 
done,  see?"  said  Murphy,  "but  I'll  take  you  up 
on  dat  job  offer  of  yours  if  we  come  through 
all  right,  see?" 

"You're — you're — you're  all  right,  Mur 
phy,"  returned  the  mayor. 

They  sat  in  the  mayor's  automobile  while 
Brennan  outlined  the  detailed  plans  for  their 
expedition. 


SPRING  STREET  315 

"When  they  close  up  for  the  night,  Murphy, 
Gallant  and  I  will  go  in  and  rig  up  the  dicto 
graph,"  he  said.  "Ben,  you  might  as  well 
come  along  with  us.  It  would  be  taking  too 
much  of  a  chance  for  one  of  us  to  go  out  and 
get  you. 

"Mr.  Mayor,  you'll  park  your  car  close  to 
the  alley  and  wait  with  Benton  until  one  of  us 
comes  out.  Then  you'll  drive  to  within  a  few 
yards  of  the  rear  door  of  the  saloon  and  keep 
your  motor  going,  while  Benton  sets  up  his 
camera.  When  we  have  enough  of  their  con 
versation  we'll  come  out  and  get  in  the  car 
with  you. 

"One  of  us  will  stand  by  Benton — I'll  do  it 
— until  he  shoots  his  flash  as  Cummings  and 
Gibson  come  out.  Benton  and  I  will  run  for 
the  machine  and  as  soon  as  we  hop  on  the 
running  board,  Mr.  Mayor,  you  start — going. 
Don't  stop  for  anything  and  remember  to  turn 
your  lights  off  while  you're  waiting.  Now, 
does  everyone  understand?" 

Each  signified  that  he  knew  his  part. 

"One  slip  will  ruin  everything,"  Brennan 
warned  them.  "It's  our  one  chance  and  a  mis 
take  will  be  costly.  If  something  happens  and 
the  mayor's  car  stalls,  Gallant  and  I  will  stay 
behind  to  handle  the  'Gink'  and  Gibson  and 
the  rest  of  you  beat  it.  You,  too,  Murphy, 


316  SPRING  STREET 

do  you  understand?  Gallant  and  I  can  take 
care  of  ourselves." 

They  waited  until  after  eleven  o'clock  be 
fore  they  left  the  corner  of  Second  and  Spring 
in  the  mayor's  car.  It  was  Saturday  night  and 
there  were  twice  as  many  people  on  the  streets 
at  that  hour  than  during  the  week  days.  As 
their  paper  published  no  Sunday  edition,  John 
and  Brennan  realized  that  if  they  were  success 
ful  the  exposure  of  the  Gibson-Cummings'  plot 
could  not  be  made  until  Monday  or  Tuesday 
at  the  earliest,  which  would  be  three  or  four 
days  before  the  primary  election,  scheduled  for 
Thursday. 

At  Brennan's  order  the  mayor  drove  the 
automobile  up  and  down  Spring  street,  from 
Second  to  Eighth  and  back.  Each  trip  as  they 
passed  the  saloon  they  watched  for  signs  of 
it  being  closed  for  the  night.  At  half-past 
eleven  they  saw  that  the  lights  were  ex 
tinguished,  the  doors  closed  and  the  steel 
lattice  work  drawn  across  the  open  front  to 
protect  the  cigar  stand  for  the  night. 

The  mayor  swung  the  automobile  into  the 
first  street  intersecting  Spring  street,  toward 
Main,  stopping  it  at  Brennan's  instructions  so 
that  it  could  be  driven  into  the  alley  without 
difficulty.  Brennan,  Smith,  Murphy  and  John 
left  the  machine  and  hurried  into  the  alley. 
Murphy  carried  a  brace  and  bit  hidden  under 


SPRING  STREET  317 

his  coat.  John's  left  arm  was  stiff  at  his  side 
from  a  steel  bar  thrust  up  into  the  sleeve  and 
Brennan  carried  the  dictograph  in  a  paper 
package  under  his  arm. 

Holding  close  to  the  shadows  of  the  brick 
wall,  they  walked  rapidly  to  the  basement 
door,  opening  it  and  entering  quickly.  Mur 
phy  and  Smith  were  posted  at  the  door  to  act 
as  guard  and  to  watch  for  the  arrival  of  Gib 
son  and  Cummings.  Brennan  and  John  went 
directly  to  the  trap  door  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs  at  the  front  of  the  basement.  Bren 
nan  pushed  upward  against  the  door,  but  it 
held  fast  against  his  strength.  John  handed 
him  the  steel  bar.  A  thrust,  a  wrench,  a  tear 
ing  of  decayed  wood  and  the  door  yielded. 
They  scrambled  through  to  the  floor  of  the 
saloon,  finding  themselves  within  a  few  feet 
of  the  room  where  they  were  to  "plant"  the 
dictograph. 

"Luck  is  with  us  this  time,"  said  Brennan  as 
they  saw  that  the  door  of  the  room  was 
open.  He  knelt  in  the  open  space  between 
the  tiers  of  drawers  on  either  side  of  the  desk 
that  filled  one  side  of  the  room.  In  half  a 
minute  the  brace  was  boring  into  the  wood 
of  the  flooring.  Through  the  hole  cut  through 
the  floor  Brennan  pushed  the  wires  of  the 
dictograph  until  their  entire  length  disappeared 
into  the  basement  and  the  "ear"  of  the  eaves- 


318  SPRING  STREET 

dropping  device  was  flat  over  the  perforation. 
He  swept  up  the  shavings  from  the  boring 
of  the  hole  with  his  hands  as  they  hurried 
back  down  into  the  basement,  where  they 
found  the  end  of  the  wire  dangling  from  the 
ceiling.  Brennan  assembled  the  dictograph 
rapidly,  attaching  to  it  three  head-pieces  with 
receivers  clamping  over  the  ears. 

"We'll  test  it,"  he  said  to  John.  "Scoot  up 
stairs  and  say  something  in  a  natural  tone  in 
all  parts  of  the  room.  Try  to  talk  at  about  the 
pitch  you  believe  they  will  speak  and  drop 
your  voice  to  a  whisper  occasionally.  Ben 
and  I  will  listen." 

While  Brennan  and  Smith  waited  with  the 
headgears  John  followed  orders,  returning  to 
the  basement  when  he  believed  he  had  talked 
to  himself  long  enough  to  make  the  test  ac 
curate. 

"Works  perfectly,"  Brennan  told  him. 
"Heard  every  word  you  said.  We're  all 
set  and  ready  to  go." 

John  glanced  at  his  watch.  It  was  five  min 
utes  after  twelve.  They  made  themselves  as 
comfortable  as  possible  on  the  empty  packing 
boxes.  Smith  produced  his  notebooks  and  a 
handful  of  carefully  sharpened  pencils. 

A  picture  of  Consuello  as  she  appeared 
when  she  stood  beside  the  window  with  its  red 
geraniums,  reciting  the  verse  in  which  she 


SPRING  STREET  319 

found  heart  comfort,  flashed  into  John's  mind. 
He  closed  his  eyes  to  hold  the  vision  in  his 
imagination.  It  faded  away,  and  another 
picture  took  its  place,  a  mental  miniature  of 
Consuello  as  he  had  last  seen  her,  standing  in 
the  doorway,  silhouetted  in  the  soft  rose  light 
behind  her.  He  saw  her  hand  flutter  and  the 
door  close.  Could  it  be  that  with  the  intuition 
of  a  daughter  of  Eve  she  knew  that  he  loved 
her?  Could  it  be  that  she 

"Brennan,"  he  said,  "what  is  that  verse  of 
Kipling's  that  starts  'So  long  as  'neath  the 
hills'  or  something  like  that?" 

In  the  tiny  glow  of  Brennan's  cigarette  John 
noticed  a  hint  of  a  smile  on  the  other's  lips  as 
he  recited: 

"So  long  as  'neath  the  Kalka  hills 
The  Tonga-horn  shall  ring, 
So  long  as  down  the  Solon  dip 
The  hard-held  ponies  swing, 
So  long  as  Tara  Divi  sees 
The  lights  of  Simla  town, 
So  long  as  Pleasure  calls  us  up, 
And  duty  drives  us  down, 
If  you  love  me  as  I  love  you. 
What   pair   so   happy   as   we   two?" 

He  paused. 

"That's  it,"  John  said.     "There's  another 


320  SPRING  STREET 

part  of  it  that  says  something  about  'all  earth 
being  servant';  how  does  it  go?" 
Brennan  continued: 

"By  all  that  lights  our  daily  life 

Or  works  our  lifelong  woe, 

From  Boileaugunge   to  Simla   Downs 

And  those  grim  glades  below, 

Where,  heedless  of  the  flying  hoof 

And  clamor  overhead, 

Sleep,  with  the  grey  langur  for  guard, 

Our  very  scornful  Dead. 

If  you  love  me  as  I  love  you, 

All  Earth  is  servant  to  us  two." 

He  paused  again. 

'That's  it,"  said  John. 

"That's  a  hell  of  a  thing  to  be  thinking 
about  now,"  said  Brennan. 

"I  know  it,"  John  returned. 

For  several  minutes  they  were  silent.  John 
thought  he  saw  Brennan  give  Smith  a  signifi 
cant  glance. 

"By  the  way,  Gallant,"  Brennan  asked, 
"how  is  your  friend,  Consuello?" 

"I'm  to  have  dinner  with  her  and  Gibson 
the  night  he  is  elected  mayor,"  John  replied, 
remembering  Gibson's  invitation. 

"Who  arranged  that?"  asked  Brennan. 

"Gibson." 


SPRING  STREET  321 

"I'm  afraid  we're  going  to  spoil  your  little 
dinner  party,"  said  Brennan,  smiling. 

"That  verse  you  just  recited  for  me  doesn't 
rhyme  if  you  make  it  'three'  instead  of 
'two,'  "  John  countered. 

"You  win,"  conceded  Brennan.  "What 
time  is  it  getting  to  be?" 

John  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Quarter  to  one,"  he  answered.  "What  if 
they  don't  show " 

A  shaft  of  light  shot  through  the  darkness 
from  the  door.  It  was  the  prearranged  signal 
from  Murphy  to  inform  them  that  Gibson  and 
Cummings  were  approaching.  As  if  jerked  by 
cords  held  in  a  single  hand  they  straightened 
up  from  their  lounging  positions. 

They  heard  the  door  open  at  the  rear  above 
them  and  footsteps  on  the  floor,  approaching 
until  the  noise  was  directly  over  their  heads. 
Dust  shook  down  on  them  from  the  grimy 
ceiling. 

Simultaneously  they  pulled  on  their  head 
gears  and  listened. 


CHAPTER  XX 

AS  CLEARLY  and  distinctly  as  though  he 
*•  ^  was  at  a  telephone  John  heard  the  voices 
of  "Gink"  Cummings  and  Gibson  in  the  room 
above  him.  Smith  began  writing  his  short 
hand  record  of  the  conversation  they  over 
heard  as  soon  as  the  conspirators  began  talk 
ing. 

"Well,  what's  new?"  he  heard  a  voice  he 
knew  to  be  Cummings'  ask. 

"Things  are  about  the  same,"  he  heard 
Gibson  reply.  "I  can't  see  how  anything  can 
happen  now  to  beat  us." 

"The  newspapers  are  the  only  thing  that 
worry  me,"  said  Cummings.  "Those  damn 
reporters  are  never  satisfied.  They  keep  dig 
ging  around  until  they  stumble  across  some 
thing  and  then  tear  things  to  pieces.  What 
about  them?  You  haven't  heard  of  anyone 
of  them  asking  too  many  questions  or  getting 
suspicious,  have  you?" 

Gibson  laughed. 

"Forget  it,  Cummings,"  he  said.  "I'll 
handle  the  reporters.  They're  not  half  as 
smart  as  they  think  they  are  and  as  people 
give  them  credit  for  being." 

In   the   glare    from   the    electric   torch   that 


SPRING  STREET  323 

Brennan  focused  on  Smith's  notebook  John  saw 
Brennan  wink  at  him. 

"Why,  two  of  them— Brennan  and  Gal 
lant — are  my  best  friends,"  Gibson  continued. 
"They've  fallen  for  every  stunt  we've  pulled." 

Brennan  winked  again. 

"Don't  be  so  cock-sure,"  Cummings  cau 
tioned.  "I've  had  more  experience  with  them 
than  you  have  and  you're  all  wrong  if  you 
think  they're  a  bunch  of  dumb-bells.  You'll 
have  to  be  mighty  careful.  You've  sailed 
right  along  without  any  trouble  because  you've 
had  sound  advice.  As  soon  as  you  think 
you're  out  of  danger,  that's  the  time  some 
thing's  sure  to  happen." 

"I'll  admit  you've  steered  me  straighter  than 
I  could  have  gone  alone,"  said  Gibson,  "but 
don't  worry,  I'm  going  to  take  good  care  of 
myself." 

There  was  a  silence  of  a  minute.  John  pic 
tured  Gibson  and  the  "Gink"  regarding  each 
other  critically  through  the  smoke  of  their 
cigaret  and  cigar.  It  was  Cummings  who 
spoke  first. 

"Gibson,"  he  said,  "this  will  be  our  last 
meeting  before  the  election." 

"Why?" 

"I've  decided  we  can't  take  any  more 
chances,"  said  Cummings. 

Another  pause  in  the  conversation.     Then — 


324  SPRING  STREET 

"Gibson,  do  we  understand  each  other 
thoroughly?" 

"What  makes  you  ask  that?"  John  believed 
he  detected  a  note  of  surprise  in  Gibson's 
counter  question. 

"I  want  to  be  sure,  that's  all,"  Cummings 
said.  "You  know  how  much  I'm  relying  on 
you.  You  know  what  I've  done  to  put  you 
where  you  are.  You're  only  going  to  be 
mayor  for  one  term  and  we'll  have  to  clean 
up  enough  then  to  last  us  the  rest  of  our 
lives.  When  your  term  expires  I  want  to 
quit  the  game. 

"You  were  broke  when  I  met  you  and  I've 
made  you  mayor  of  Los  Angeles.  You  have 
power  and  a  reputation  and  if  you  don't  spill 
the  beans  you'll  be  a  millionaire  when  you 
walk  out  of  the  city  hall  in  four  years.  For 
ten  years  I've  had  this  plan  in  my  mind, 
waiting  for  a  chance  to  work  it.  When  I 
met  you  I  knew  I  had  the  man  to  go  through 
with  it.  I've  spent  a  lot  of  money,  risked 
everything  I  had  and  there  have  been  times 
that  I've  had  a  fight  on  my  hands  to  keep  the 
boys  in  line. 

"It  looks  now  as  if  I'm  going  to  come  out 
on  top.  While  you're  mayor  we'll  work  care 
fully.  Probably  it  will  be  a  year  before  we 
start  out  after  the  money.  We  can  afford  to 
wait  that  long  once  you're  in  office.  But  every- 


SPRING  STREET  325 

thing,  everything,  you  understand,  depends  on 
you." 

"Everything  you  say  is  true,"  said  Gibson, 
seriously. 

A  pause.  When  Cummings  broke  the 
silence  there  was  a  new  tone  in  his  voice.  It 
was  harsh,  dictatorial,  threatening,  the  voice 
of  a  man  of  steel  who  ruled  like  an  uncrowned 
king  by  the  fear  he  instilled  in  his  miserable 
subjects. 

"Gibson,"  he  said,  "if  you  double-cross  me 
you'll  wish  you  had  never  been  born." 

John  could  not  help  but  admire  the  even 
coolness  of  Gibson's  voice  when  he  replied: 

"There's  no  need  for  you  to  try  to  frighten 
me,  Cummings." 

"I  mean  what  I  say,"  returned  the  "Gink." 

"I  know  you  do,"  said  Gibson  quietly.  "But 
I  want  you  to  understand  something.  You  and 
I  can  get  along  together  without  any  threats. 
And  another  thing.  I'm  not  working  with  you 
because  I  fear  you,  but  because  I  want  what 
you're  giving  me.  So  forget  the  'rough  stuff,' 
as  you  call  it." 

So  delicately  was  the  dictograph  adjusted 
that  John  heard  Cummings  draw  his  breath 
sharply. 

"I've  been  double-crossed  before,"  he  said, 
"by  men  a  damn  sight  smarter  than  you  are." 

"I'll  simply  repeat  what  I  just  said  to  you," 


326  SPRING  STREET 

retorted  Gibson.  "I'm  working  with  you 
because  I  want  what  you  have  to  give  me, 
not  because  I'm  afraid  of  you  or  anyone  else." 

It  was  a  direct  challenge  to  a  man  who  ruled 
by  cowing  his  adherents,  who  had  never  failed 
to  carry  out  a  threat  and  who  was  as  guilty 
of  murder  as  the  thugs  he  ordered  to  beat  or 
shoot  to  death  a  rebel  in  the  ranks  of  crime. 
But  between  the  two,  Cummings  was  the  cow 
ard,  psychologically  at  least.  His  shrewdness 
told  him  that  it  was  useless  for  him  to  en 
deavor  to  control  Gibson  by  threats  of  physical 
harm  or  death  and  he  exercised  his  tact.  He 
realized  also  that  a  man  of  Gibson's  mettle 
was  more  to  be  trusted  than  a  servile,  af 
frighted  weakling. 

"You're  right,  Gibson,"  he  said.  "There's 
no  need  for  either  of  us  to  try  to  frighten  the 
other.  Forget  what  I  said  a  minute  ago.  I 
said  it  without  thinking.  You  can't  blame  me 
if  my  nerves  are  on  edge  after  what  I've  been 
through  to  put  you  where  you  are  and  you 
know  how  much  I've  got  at  stake  in  this  busi 


ness." 


"No  more  than  I  have,"  said  Gibson. 
"Cummings,  I've  never  told  you  this  because 
I  didn't  think  it  necessary,  but  on  the  day  I 
am  sworn  in  as  mayor  I  hope  to  be  married. 
You  can  understand  better  now  how  well  I 


SPRING  STREET  327 

realize  that  nothing  must  happen.  I'd  rather 
die  right  here  than  have  any  of  this  business 
come  out  to  disgrace  her." 

Cummings  received  Gibson's  announcement 
of  his  intention  to  be  married  in  silence.  John 
expected  Brennan  to  tip  him  another  wink  or 
smile  to  him  at  Gibson's  mention  of  his  mar 
riage  plans.  Instead,  he  saw  Brennan's  eyes 
narrow  and  his  jaw  set.  Whether  the  ex 
pression  of  anger  and  determination  that  came 
over  Brennan's  face  was  caused  by  indignation 
of  Gibson's  duplicity  or  by  friendship  for  Con- 
suello,  whom  Brennan  had  never  seen,  John 
did  not  know,  but  a  thrill  of  encouragement 
swept  through  him  as  he  realized  that  he  was 
not  alone  in  the  fight  to  save  her. 

He  saw  Brennan  signal  him  to  approach. 
Slipping  off  the  headgear  he  moved  noiselessly 
and  leaned  forward  so  that  he  could  hear  what 
Brennan  whispered  to  him. 

"It  won't  be  long  now  before  they'll  be 
leaving,"  Brennan  said.  "Slip  out  without 
making  any  noise  and  bring  Benton  and  the 
mayor  for  the  picture." 

John  went  quickly  to  the  door,  where  Mur 
phy  was  on  guard. 

"Everything  o.  k.  ?"  asked  Murphy  in  a 
hoarse  whisper.  John  nodded  and  went  up 
and  out  into  the  alley.  He  found  the  mayor 


328  SPRING  STREET 

and  Benton  waiting  nervously  in  the  automo 
bile. 

"We've  got  enough  to  ruin  them,"  he  said, 
anticipating  the  mayor's  eagerness.  He  climbed 
into  the  car  and  the  mayor  drove  it  quietly 
into  the  alley,  switching  off  the  lights  as  Bren- 
nan  had  ordered  him  to  do.  He  stopped  the 
automobile  about  thirty  feet  past  the  door  of 
the  saloon.  In  a  minute  Benton  was  setting  up 
his  camera  on  its  tripod  directly  across  the 
alley  from  the  door. 

At  Benton's  request,  John  stood  at  the 
door  and  flashed  on  his  electric  torch  long 
enough  for  the  photographer  to  get  the  focus. 
Although  it  was  less  than  five  seconds  that  he 
stood  with  his  back  only  a  foot  from  the  door 
from  which  Cummings  and  Gibson  were  to 
emerge,  John's  imagination  created  a  terrible 
fear  that  they  would  come  upon  him  in  the 
helpless  position  in  which  he  stood. 

"All  set,"  Benton  called  to  him  in  a  sharp 
whisper.  Crossing  the  alley  he  saw  Benton  fill 
ing  his  flashlight  gun  with  flash  powder  and 
heard  him  chanting,  softly  to  himself: 

*  'E  would  dot  an'  carry  one 
Till  the  longest  day  was  done; 
An  'e  didn't  seem  to  know  the  use  o'  fear. 
If  we  charged  or  broke  or  cut, 
You  could  bet  your  bloomin'  nut, 
'E'd  be  waitin'  fifty  paces  right  flank  rear." 


SPRING  STREET  329 

He  was  at  Benton's  side  when  Murphy, 
Smith  and  Brennan,  in  rapid  succession  came 
quickly  up  into  the  alley  from  the  basement 
stair.  Sharply  Brennan  ordered  John  to  fol 
low  Murphy  and  Smith  into  the  automobile 
while  he  remained  with  Benton,  who  stood 
poised  with  his  finger  on  the  trigger  of  the 
flash  gun. 

As  soon  as  John,  with  Murphy  and  Smith, 
was  in  the  automobile,  he  looked  back.  The 
door  opened  and  Cummings  and  Gibson  step 
ped  out.  Benton's  flashlight  gun  boomed  and 
a  brilliant  white  light  blazed,  turning  night 
into  day  for  a  fraction  of  a  second. 

The  mayor  raced  the  motor  as  Benton  and 
Brennan  dashed  toward  the  automobile  and 
sprang  to  the  running  board.  John  saw  Gib 
son  and  Cummings,  recovering  from  their  sur 
prise,  rush  after  them.  Cummings  was  tug 
ging  at  something  in  his  right  hip  pocket. 

With  a  roar  from  its  exhaust,  the  automo 
bile  lunged  forward.  He  heard  the  mayor 
curse  as  he  shifted  the  gears  fiercely,  each 
move  of  his  hand  giving  the  car  accelerated 
speed. 

"Duck  your  heads,"   Brennan  yelled. 

An  automatic  pistol  cracked  out  its  sharp  re 
ports  and  a  bullet  tore  through  the  top  of 
the  car  and  shattered  the  windshield  glass  to 


330  SPRING  STREET 

splinters  as  the  automobile  lurched  out  of  the 

alley. 

***** 

Murphy  sat  tilted  back  in  a  chair,  his  feet 
braced  against  the  sill  of  the  only  window  of 
his  room.  Cigarette  butts  were  heaped  in  a 
tarnished  brass  souvenir  ash  tray  on  a  table  at 
his  side.  The  Sunday  newspapers,  from  which 
he  had  extracted  the  sporting  sections  to  peruse 
every  line,  were  scattered  on  the  floor  around 
his  chair. 

His  scraggy  hair  tousled  on  his  head,  a 
growth  of  black,  wiry  beard  covering  his  face, 
coatless  and  collarless,  he  was  a  picture  of 
coarse  self-indulgence.  Returning  to  his  room 
at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  after  separat 
ing  from  the  mayor,  Brennan,  John  and  Smith 
following  their  escape  from  "Gink"  Cummings' 
pistol  shots,  he  had  slept  until  noon.  He  went 
to  the  cheap  dairy  lunch  near  his  rooming 
house  for  a  heavy  breakfast  of  ham  and  eggs, 
purchased  the  Sunday  papers  and  came  back 
to  smoke  and  read. 

The  room  with  its  disordered  bed,  drab 
walls  dotted  with  sporting  prints,  dusty,  rickety 
furnishings,  threadbare  carpet  and  grimy  lace 
curtains,  was  a  dreary,  prison-like  place.  But 
to  Murphy  it  was  the  place  of  his  content, 
as  much  of  a  home  as  he  had  ever  had.  He 
had  slept  in  alleys  and  deserted  shacks  and 


SPRING  STREET  331 

basements.  So  to  him  the  room  brought  no 
discomfort  and  was  as  luxurious  in  his  un 
imaginative  mind  as  a  suite  at  the  Ambassador 
or  the  Alexandria.  No  invitation  to  the  rest 
ful  mountains  or  the  sparkling  ocean,  its 
beaches  lined  with  gay  Sunday  crowds,  floated 
to  him  on  the  breeze  that  drifted  in  through 
the  open  window.  He  was  enjoying  a  rousta 
bout's  day  of  rest. 

After  a  while,  perhaps,  when  dusk  falling 
over  the  city  heralded  brooding  night,  he 
would  emerge  from  his  room  to  visit  his 
favorite  pool  room,  where,  in  an  atmosphere 
blue  with  smoke,  he  would  lounge  in  a  chair 
at  a  wall  and  exchange  gossip  of  sport  and 
sporting  things  with  other  hangers-on.  From 
there  he  might  wander  in  upon  a  friendly 
"crap"  or  card  game  behind  the  locked  door 
of  an  unventilated  room  of  a  Spring  street 
"social  club."  Or  he  might  go  to  one  of  the 
stuffy,  over-heated  gymnasiums  to  watch  some 
industrious  and  ambitious  boxer  in  training. 
That  wras  his  life  and  he  was  happy  in  it,  a 
hand-to-mouth  sort  of  existence  in  which  he 
was  satisfied. 

At  intervals  a  thrill  of  the  excitement  of 
the  adventure  of  the  night  before,  when  he 
had  played  an  important  part  in  the  trapping 
of  "Gink"  Cummings  and  Gibson,  returned 
to  him.  It  was  difficult  for  him  to  realize 


332  SPRING  STREET 

that  the  mayor  of  Los  Angeles  had  taken  him 
by  the  hand,  like  a  brother,  and  thanked  him 
and  promised  him  the  best  job  at  his  disposal 
if  he  was  re-elected.  He  remembered  having 
told  the  mayor  he  could  drive  like  ''Jimmy'' 
Murphy,  the  racer,  when  they  had  sped  out 
of  the  downtown  district  and  away  from  pos 
sible  pursuit.  He  remembered  how  he  had 
patched  a  cut  over  the  mayor's  eye,  a  lacera 
tion  caused  by  a  piece  of  the  shattered  wind 
shield,  with  the  skill  of  facial  repair  that  he 
had  learned  as  a  second  at  the  Vernon  ring. 

The  "Gallant  kid"  and  Brennan,  they  were 
"regular  guys,"  all  right.  Brennan  was  a 
"wisecracker,"  all  right,  all  right.  Some  day 
he'd  tell  them  why  he  was  helping  them.  They 
thought  he  was  doing  it  for  the  money  they 
gave  him.  He  wouldn't  "double-cross"  the 
"Gink"  or  anyone  else  for  money,  see?  What 
kind  of  a  "bird"  did  they  take  him  for,  any 
way?  A  "stool-pigeon"?  He'd  tell  them 
why  some  day  and  they'd  know  that  Tim  Mur 
phy  wasn't  no  "stool-pigeon."  He'd  tell 
them 

A  rap  on  the  door!  He  brought  his  feet 
down  from  the  window-sill.  The  "Gallant 
kid"  or  Brennan,  probably,  or,  maybe  it  was 
his  friend,  the  mayor.  He  rose  and,  crossing 
the  room,  turned  the  key  in  the  lock.  He 
was  about  to  put  his  hand  on  the  knob  when 


SPRING  STREET  333 

the  door  pushed  open  toward  him  and  three 
men  sidled  into  the  room.  Murphy  cringed 
back  as  one  of  them  shut  the  door  quickly, 
locked  it  and  turned  to  face  him,  putting  the 
key  in  his  pocket. 

It  was  "Slim"  Gray,  the  "Gink's"  right- 
hand  man! 

"Slim"  Gray,  cold-eyed,  his  thin  lips  pressed 
tight  together;  "Slim"  Gray,  hard,  venomous, 
merciless,  hate  blazing  in  his  eyes.  And  the 
other  two  looking  at  him  contemptuously, 
snarlingly.  Two  of  the  "Gink's"  men! 

For  nearly  a  minute  they  stood  there  look 
ing  at  him,  without  moving.  For  nearly  a 
minute  he  stared  back  at  them  as  if  they  had 
hypnotized  him;  his  arms  half  lifted,  his  head 
bent  forward,  his  mouth  hanging  open.  A 
sickening  feeling  of  terror  caused  his  hands  to 
tremble  and  his  knees  to  feel  as  though  they 
were  giving  way  under  him. 

He  knew  they  were  going  to  "bash"  him, 
probably  kill  him.  He  might  have  been  able 
to  handle  "Slim"  alone,  but  those  two  power 
ful  bruisers — they'd  kill  him,  sure.  He  checked 
an  impulse  to  scream.  They'd  throttle  him 
if  he  did.  Maybe  he  could  taik  himself  out  of 
the  trap. 

Twice  before  he  managed  to  gasp  out 
"Slim!"  his  lips  formed  the  word,  but  no 
sound  came  from  them. 


334  SPRING  STREET 

"Shut  your mouth,"  said  "Slim'; 

through  his  teeth. 

He  threw  himself  back  as  though  he  ex 
pected  the  words  to  be  followed  by  a  rain  of 
blows.  His  back  was  flat  against  the  wall. 
If  he  could  only  get  around  to  the  window  he 
could  dart  out  and  down  the  fire  escape. 
Divining  his  one  and  only  hope  of  escape, 
one  of  the  "bashers"  sprang  forward,  grabbed 
him  by  an  arm  and  whirled  him  into  a  chair. 
He  cringed  as  the  bruiser  stood  over  him,  his 
big  fists  clenched  and  ready  to  strike. 

"Get  back,  Louie,"  he  heard  "Slim"  order 
sharply.  Louie  stepped  away  from  him  and 
"Slim"  faced  him. 

"Murphy,"  said  "Slim,"  speaking  slowly, 
"you've  got  one  chance  to  get  out  of  this." 

"What've  I  done,  'Slim'?"  his  voice  shook. 
In  his  terror  he  could  only  think  of  trying  to 
"stall." 

"Don't  pull  that  stuff  on  me,  you  damn 
stool-pigeon,"  snapped  "Slim."  "You  know 
what  I  want  from  you.  Who  was  that  with 
you  last  night?  Come  on,  spit  it  out." 

"What're   ya   talkin'    about,    'Slim'?" 

"I  told  you  not  to  pull  that  stuff.  It  won't 
get  you  anything,  see?  We  know  you  were 

in  it.  You fool,  didn't  you  know 

we'd  find  out  about  you?" 

"Ah,  'Slim,'  ya  got  me  wrong,  I  ain't " 


SPRING  STREET  335 

A  hand  clutched  his  hair.  He  could  feel  the 
finger  nails  digging  into  his  scalp.  With  a 
jerk  that  shook  him  to  his  feet  Louie  threw 
him  half  out  of  the  chair. 

"Cut  it,  Louie,"  he  heard  "Slim"  say  as 
he  remained  where  he  had  been  thrown,  fear 
ful  of  lifting  his  head. 

For  a  minute  there  was  a  dreadful  silence. 

"Murphy,"  said  uSlim,"  "do  you  remem 
ber  what  happened  to  'Gat'  Mollwitz  and 
'Beanie'  Wilson?" 

Did  he  remember?  A  nauseating  feeling 
gripped  him.  "Gat"  and  "Beanie"  had  defied 
the  "Gink"  and  they  were  found  one  morning 
beaten  and  kicked,  broken  and  bleeding.  They 
died  in  agony  a  few  hours  later. 

"Don't,   'Slim,'   don't!"   he   gasped. 

"Out  with  it,  then,  who  was  that  with  you 
last  night?  Come  through  and  you  can  get  out 
of  town  tonight." 

Right  then  something  happened  inside  of 
Murphy,  something  a  psychologist  might  be 
able  to  describe  in  vague  scientific  terms.  He 
became  possessed  of  a  desperate  courage  far 
greater  than  he  had  ever  dreamed  of  having. 
In  that  moment  of  metamorphosis  he  became  a 
fatalist.  He  realized  that  whether  he  gave 
"Slim"  the  information  he  sought  or  not  the 
result  would  be  the  same.  The  life  would  be 
kicked  and  beaten  out  of  him.  The  "Gink," 


336  SPRING  STREET 

to  save  himself  and  Gibson  at  all  hazards, 
would  not  take  a  further  chance  by  permitting 
him  to  live. 

Then  why  should  he  give  up?  Why  should 
he  surrender  to  "Slim"  and  his  "bashers"  if 
he  could  gain  nothing  by  it?  He'd  like  to  be 
able  to  live  just  long  enough  to  tell  the  mayor 
and  Brennan  and  the  "Gallant  kid"  the  real 
reason  that  he  helped  them  trap  Cummings 
and  Gibson.  He  didn't  want  them  to  think 
he  had  sold  himself  for  money.  And  even  if 
they  killed  him  now,  Brennan  and  the  "Gal 
lant  kid"  would  know  that  he  died  trying  to 
protect  them,  that  he  wasn't  a  contemptible 
"squealer"  after  all. 

As  he  straightened  up  from  the  prone  posi 
tion  into  which  he  had  been  thrown  by  Louie, 
he  saw,  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  the  pil 
low  under  his  bed  and  there  flashed  into  his 
mind  the  realization  that  under  it  was  his  re 
volver.  If  he  could  only  get  it  somehow. 

"Let's  hear  it.  Who  was  with  you?"  de 
manded  "Slim." 

Murphy's  long  dormant  imagination  began 
to  work.  For  the  purpose  of  deceiving  "Slim" 
he  must  keep  a  mask  of  servile  fear  on  his 
face. 

"Let  me  get  a  shot  of  hooch,  'Slim,'  and 
I'll  tell  ya  everything,"  he  whimpered.  He 
rose  timidly  from  his  chair.  Louie  and  the 


SPRING  STREET  337 

other  "basher"  started  toward  him,  but  stopped 
at  a  gesture  from  "Slim." 

He  went  to  the  battered,  flat-topped  dresser 
a  few  feet  from  the  bed  and  pulled  open  a 
drawer.  From  it  he  took  a  bottle  of  whisky. 
Pretending  that  the  cork  was  stuck  he  worked 
with  it  fumblingly  to  get  time  in  which  to 
think.  He  would  take  a  drink,  feign  that  it 
choked  him,  stagger  to  the  head  of  the  bed, 
stumble  on  to  the  pillow  and  then  come  up 
with  the  revolver  in  his  hand.  Then  h^  would 
have  them! 

He  lifted  the  bottle  to  his  mouth  and  gulped. 
He  let  the  bottle  fall  from  his  hand  as  he 
choked  and  gasped  for  breath,  sputtering  the 
fiery  liquor  from  his  lips.  Reeling  and  spit 
ting  he  stumbled  toward  the  bed  and  fell  on 
it.  His  right  hand  pushed  under  the  pillow 
and  seized  the  gun,  but  not  by  the  handle.  In 
the  second  that  he  was  trying  desperately  to 
wrap  his  hand  around  the  butt  of  the  weapon 
and  get  a  finger  on  the  trigger  he  was  lost. 

With  a  warning  shout  Louie  leaped  on  the 
bed  and  grasped  his  arm. 

He  felt  himself  pulled  to  his  feet  and 
hurled  to  the  floor.  He  shut  his  eyes.  With  a 
sweep  of  his  arm  the  "basher"  crashed  a  black 
jack  against  his  skull.  A  head  splitting  flash 
of  blinding  light  and  then  darkness  and  in 
sensibility.  He  did  not  feel  the  brutal  blows 


338  SPRING  STREET 

that  were  rained  on  him  nor  the  kicks  that 
fractured  his  arms,  his  ribs  and  tore  deep  cuts 
on  his  face  and  body. 

"That's  enough,  boys,  beat  it,"  commanded 
uSlim."  As  they  ran  out  of  the  room  "Slim" 
caught  sight  of  Murphy's  coat.  Quickly  his 
hands  went  through  the  pockets.  From  one 
he  drew  a  soiled  bit  of  paper. 

On  the  paper  was  written,  "Brennan  and 
the  Gallant  kid"  and  the  telephone  number  of 
the  newspaper  on  which  they  were  employed. 

"Slim"  locked  the  door  from  the  outside 
and  tossed  the  key  back  into  the  room  over  the 
transom,  leaving  Murphy  for  dead. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

T  N  THAT  delightful  state  of  drowsiness 
•*•  that  follows  after  waking  from  a  sound 
sleep,  John  mentally  reviewed  the  stirring  ad 
venture  of  the  night  before.  The  warm, 
bright  sunshine  streaming  in  through  the  open 
windows  of  his  bedroom  had  wakened  him 
slowly.  He  could  hear  his  mother  in  the 
kitchen,  preparing  breakfast. 

Every  detail  of  how  the  mayor,  Murphy, 
Brennan  and  he  had  succeeded  in  overhearing 
a  conversation  between  Gibson  and  "Gink" 
Cummings  was  fresh  in  his  mind.  His  nerves 
tingled  as  he  again  felt  the  thrill  of  those 
breathless  minutes  when  Benton  photographed 
Gibson  and  the  uGink"  by  flashlight  and  Cum 
mings  rained  shots  after  them  as  they  escaped 
in  the  mayor's  automobile. 

It  was  only  a  matter  of  a  few  hours  now 
before  the  conspiracy  between  the  police  com 
missioner  and  candidate  for  mayor  and  the 
notorious  king  of  the  underworld  to  seize 
control  of  the  city  government  would  be  ex 
posed,  broadcast  throughout  Los  Angeles  as 
the  most  sensational  news  story  of  the  year. 
Before  he  returned  home,  after  three  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  John,  with  Brennan,  had  in- 


340  SPRING  STREET 

formed  P.  Q.  of  their  success  in  obtaining  evi 
dence  to  prove  the  Cummings-Gibson  conspir 
acy.  The  city  editor  told  them  he  would  com 
municate  with  the  "chief"  Sunday  and  instructed 
them  to  report  for  duty  earlier  than  usual  Mon 
day  morning. 

"We'll  probably  break  the  story  Monday," 
said  P.  Q.  "We'll  shoot  everything  we  have : 
Gallant's  story  of  the  framed  raid  on  the 
Spring  street  bookmakers,  how  the  'Gink'  re 
gulated  crime  to  give  Gibson  a  reputation;  the 
affidavits  of  'Big  Jim'  Hatch  and  his  wife  and 
give  it  the  finishing  touch  with  Benton's  pho 
tograph.  Of  course,  we'll  have  Smith's  ver 
batim  report.  Arrange  with  him  to  have  it 
ready  for  us  without  fail  by  seven  o'clock 
Monday  morning.  One  of  you  get  an  affidavit 
from  Murphy,  telling  his  whole  story.  You've 
blown  the  lid  off  things  this  time,  all  right, 
boys." 

Murphy  left  them  before  they  telephoned 
to  P.  Q.,  so  it  was  impossible  for  them  to 
arrange  with  him  to  meet  one  of  them  before 
Monday.  They  agreed  that  John  should  find 
Murphy  and  obtain  his  affidavit  in  order  that 
it  would  be  ready  for  publication  Monday. 

The  elation  John  felt  as  a  newspaper  re 
porter  in  having  aided  in  obtaining  the  evi 
dence  for  the  exposure  of  the  Cummings-Gib 
son  plot  changed  to  regret  when  he  thought  of 


SPRING  STREET  341 

how  it  would  affect  Consuello.  Could  she, 
would  she  remember  and  follow  out  her  prom 
ise  to  think  of  him  as  having  done  what  he 
believed  was  his  duty?  Would  she  refuse  to 
believe  the  truth  about  Gibson  or  would  she,  in 
the  bitterness  of  disillusionment,  blame  those 
who  brought  about  the  exposure?  He  pic 
tured  her  beside  her  window  of  red  geraniums, 
lifting  tear-dimmed  eyes  to  her  "green  and 
friendly  hill"  and  he  was  unhappy  in  conjectur 
ing  upon  her  broken  heart. 

His  mother's  call  to  him  that  breakfast  was 
waiting  roused  him  from  his  reverie.  He  had 
never  told  Mrs.  Gallant  that  Consuello  was 
Gibson's  fiancee;  in  fact,  Consuello's  name  had 
never  been  mentioned  between  them  since  the 
night  that  Mrs.  Gallant  had  displayed  her 
antipathy  for  her.  He  realized  also  that  his 
mother  would  not  be  able  to  comprehend 
why  Consuello  met  him  in  Gibson's  absence 
and  would  probably  consider  it  an  unforgiv 
able  breach  of  etiquette. 

At  breakfast  he  told  his  mother  of  his  ad 
venture  of  the  previous  night,  minimizing  the 
dangers  of  the  exploit  to  forestall  her  inevit 
able  admonition  for  him  to  avoid  risks  of  all 
kinds. 

"It's  a  big  thing  for  me,"  he  said,  en 
thusiastically.  "I  was  promised  more  salary 
and  a  contract  if  it  went  through.  Of  course, 


342  SPRING  STREET 

Brennan  and  P.  Q.  and  Murphy  deserve  most 
of  the  credit,  but  I  helped  them." 

"What  will  become  of  this  man  Gibson?" 
Mrs.  Gallant  asked. 

"I've  been  wondering  how  he'll  take  it," 
he  said.  "He  may  try  to  bluff  through,  claim 
it's  all  a  perjured  frame-up.  But  I  don't  be 
lieve  he'll  do  that.  You  see,  he  knows  that 
the  photograph  is  absolutely  condemning  evi 
dence.  I  expect  that  he'll  simply  disappear. 
He  may  have  left  the  city  by  this  time.  Or 
he  may  try  to  bargain  with  our  publisher  by 
offering  to  retire  as  a  candidate  if  the  scan 
dal  about  him  is  hushed  up.  I  don't  believe 
the  'chief  would  consent  to  that,  though." 

Usually  on  Sunday  mornings  John  accom 
panied  his  mother  to  church.  This  day,  how 
ever,  because  it  was  too  late  for  them  to 
attend  the  morning  service,  they  went  for  a 
walk  instead.  When  they  passed  the  neighbor 
hood  motion  picture  theater  John  noticed  that 
Consuello's  latest  picture,  the  one  he  had  seen 
at  the  pre-view,  was  being  shown.  An  heroic 
size  photograph  of  Consuello  stood  in  the 
small  lobby  of  the  theater.  He  noticed  that 
his  mother  averted  her  eyes.  They  walked  in 
silence  for  half  a  block  and  then  Mrs.  Gallant 
spoke. 

"Isn't  Miss  Carrillo  a  friend,  a  very  dear 
friend,  of  this  Mr.  Gibson?"  she  asked. 


SPRING  STREET  343 

"Yes,"  he  admitted.  "Why  do  you  ask, 
mother?" 

She  did  not  reply. 

"But,  mother,"  he  exclaimed,  "surely  you 
won't  think  that  she  knew  of  his  scheming  with 
'Gink'  Cummings!  Will  you  blame  her  be 
cause  someone  she  knew  went  wrong?  Do 
you  hold  her  responsible  for  the  faults  and 
weaknesses  of  others?" 

Again  Mrs.  Gallant  did  not  reply.  Her 
silence  provoked  him.  It  was  so  unlike  her 
to  be  unfair.  He  stifled  the  angry  protest  he 
was  about  to  utter. 

"Some  day,  mother,  you  are  going  to  know 
her,"  he  said.  "Then  every  unkind  thought 
you  have  ever  held  toward  her  will  come  back 
to  you  in  anguish.  You  know,  mother,  dear 
est,  how  wrong  it  is  to  condemn  unfairly. 
That  was  one  of  the  first  lessons  taught  me 
by  father;  to  withhold  judgment;  suppress 
prejudice  until  all  sides  of  a  case  have  been 
heard.  That  is  the  keystone  of  American  lib 
erty — 'malice  toward  none.'  It  was  the  prin 
ciple  of  the  Magna  Carta,  Great  Britain's 
document  of  human  rights,  that  the  English 
barons  compelled  their  king  to  deliver  to  them 
more  than  700  years  ago. 

"Remember,  mother,  dearest" — his  voice 
softened — "it  was  prejudice,  intolerance  and 
hate  that  caused  the  crucifixion  of  Christ," 


344  SPRING  STREET 


please,"  his  mother  said,  gently, 
"please  don't  allow  anything  to  spoil  our  one 
day  of  the  week  together." 

"But,  mother  -  "  he  began. 

"My  boy!  Please,"  she  pleaded. 

He  had  never  gone  against  her  wishes  when 
she  spoke  to  him  like  that.  He  patted  her 
arm  and  smiled. 

"All  right,  mother,  dearest,"  he  said,  "we'll 
forget  all  about  it  now.  This  is  our  day  to 
gether  and  nothing  shall  impair  it." 

How  glad  he  would  have  been  to  have  been 
able  to  have  told  her  of  his  love  for  Con- 
suello!  How  much  help  she  could  have  been 
to  him,  now  that  he  was  about  to  ruin  the 
man  Consuello  had  agreed  to  take  as  her 
husband.  If  "that"  Mrs.  Sprockett,  who  was 
fostering  his  mother's  prejudice  against  motion 
pictures  and  motion  picture  players,  would 
only  stay  more  at  home  with  her  colicky  baby 
instead  of  playing  the  part  of  a  hypocritical 
Puritan.  A  passage  from  Proverbs  his  father 
had  often  quoted  returned  to  him. 

"Where  no  wood  is  there  the  fire  goeth 
out;  so  where  there  is  no  talebearer,  the  strife 
ceaseth." 

But  he  chased  these  thoughts  from  his  head 
to  be  a  companion  to  his  mother.  They  ad 
mired  flowers  in  gardens  of  homes  they  passed, 
studied  interesting  architecture  they  caught 


SPRING  STREET  345 

sight  of,  planned  a  picnic  in  the  foothills — John 
thought  of  the  spot  where  he  had  watched  Con- 
suello  before  the  cameras — recited  bits  of 
poetry  to  each  other  and  enjoyed  the  afternoon 
more  than  any  since  the  death  of  Mr.  Gallant, 
who  had  always  led  them  on  their  Sunday 
"tramps,"  as  he  called  them. 

It  was  earlier  than  usual  when  they  returned 
to  their  home.  They  shortened  their  outing 
because  of  John's  promise  to  Brennan  to  see 
Murphy  before  morning  and  obtain  from  him 
an  affidavit  to  be  used  in  the  printed  exposure 
of  Cummings  and  Gibson. 

"Be  careful,  my  boy,"  Mrs.  Gallant  cau 
tioned  him  as  he  kissed  her  before  leaving  to 
get  the  car  to  go  down  town. 

"Don't  worry,  mother;  there's  no  danger 
now,"  he  assured  her. 

As  he  passed  the  neighborhood  picture  thea 
ter  a  young  girl,  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  of 
age,  emerged  from  the  door.  In  the  strong 
light  of  the  lobby  he  saw  her  face  plainly — a 
rather  pretty  face — and  he  remembered,  indis 
tinctly,  of  having  met  her,  seen  her  somewhere 
before.  He  saw  that  she  recognized  him 
with  a  startled  expression  and  unconsciously 
he  slowed  his  steps.  The  girl  hurried  to  his 
side  and  put  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Please   don't  tell,   will  you?"   she  begged. 

"Tell?     I  don't  understand,"  he  said. 


346  SPRING  STREET 

"Aren't    you    John    Gallant?"    she    asked. 

He  noticed  a  look  of  fear  in  her  eyes. 

"Yes." 

"I'm  Alma  Sprockett,"  she  said,  as  if  the 
mention  of  her  name  was  sufficient  explanation 
of  her  request  for  him  to  keep  whatever  she 
had  in  mind  a  secret. 

"Well?"  he  asked,  still  unable  to  under 
stand. 

"If  mother  ever  found  out  that  I  was  at 
the  picture  show  today  I'd  be  in  a  peck  of 
trouble,"  she  said.  "She  won't  let  me  go  to 
the  movies  at  all  and  I  have  to  sneak  away  and 
I  do  enjoy  them  so  much.  Now  you  won't 
tell  your  mother  or  my  mother  or  anyone,  will 
you?" 

"Of  course  not,"  he  answered,  smiling. 

"Oh,  thanks  ever  and  ever  so  much,"  she 
said,  and  turning,  hurried  homeward. 

That  was  it,  he  thought  as  he  waited  for 
his  car.  Mrs.  Sprockett  could  find  time  to  run 
around  the  neighborhood  telling  others  what  to 
do,  what  not  to  do,  what  should  be  done  and 
what  shouldn't  be  done,  but  she  couldn't  be 
obeyed  even  by  her  own  daughter!  All  the 
way  uptown  and  until  he  turned  into  the  nar* 
row,  foul-aired  stairway  leading  up  to  Mur 
phy's  room,  Mrs.  Sprockett  and  Alma,  his 
mother  and  Consuello  were  jumbled  in  his 
thoughts. 


SPRING  STREET  347 

He  rapped  on  the  panel  of  the  door  of 
Murphy's  room  at  the  end  of  the  dark,  dingy 
hall.  When  he  received  no  response  he  turned 
the  knob  and  pushed  against  the  door,  which 
held  fast.  Discovering  that  it  was  locked  he 
hesitated  a  moment  to  decide  whether  to  wait 
or  leave  and  return  later. 

A  moan,  a  deep  gasping  sound,  came  to  his 
ears.  He  started  and  put  his  ear  to  the  crack 
of  the  door.  Another  moan,  fainter  than  be 
fore,  sounded  in  the  room. 

"Murphy!"   he  called. 

There  was  no  answer  from  beyond  the 
door,  not  even  a  moan.  John  shook  the 
handle. 

uMurphy!  Murphy!  Is  that  you?  Are  you 
hurt?"  he  shouted. 

No  answer,  no  sound.  He  put  his  shoulder 
to  the  door  and,  bracing  himself,  pushed  with 
all  his  strength  against  it,  but  it  held  firm.  Step 
ping  back  he  swung  a  kick  against  a  lower 
panel.  The  wood  broke  and  splintered.  He 
dropped  to  his  knees  and  tore  the  split  pieces 
out  with  his  hands. 

Through  the  hole  in  the  panel  he  saw  the 
key  uSlim"  Gray  had  tossed  back  into  the 
room  over  the  transom.  Reaching  his  arm 
through  the  opening  he  picked  it  up  and,  open 
ing  the  door,  rushed  into  the  room. 

The  twisted,  broken,  beaten  figure  of  Mur- 


348  SPRING  STREET 

phy  lay  on  the  floor  near  the  foot  of  the 
bed.  The  awfulness  of  the  sight  turned  John 
sick  and  with  a  choking  cry  of  pity  and  despair 
he  dropped  to  his  knees  beside  it. 

"Murphy!  Murphy!"  he  cried.  "What 
have  they  done  to  you?  Can  you  hear  me? 
Speak  to  me,  Murphy,  speak  to  me." 

The  head  of  the  "bashed"  youth  rolled 
limply  from  side  to  side  and  he  groaned  un 
consciously.  John  shut  his  eyes  to  close  from 
vision  the  swollen,  lacerated  face  of  his  friend. 
Fury  surged  through  him  as  he  jumped  to  his 
feet.  He  knew  intuitively  that  Murphy  was 
the  victim  of  "Gink"  Cummings'  brutality. 
He  wanted  to  kill  Cummings  with  his  hands. 

Sobbing,  he  ran  from  the  room  and  dashed 
to  the  nearest  telephone.  He  called  the  re 
ceiving  hospital,  telling  the  attendant  to  rush 
the  ambulance  at  top  speed.  He  waited  at  the 
street  entrance  to  the  rooming  house  until  the 
ambulance  arrived,  its  shrill  siren  whistle 
clearing  a  pathway  for  it  through  the  traffic. 
Slowly,  gently,  they  lifted  Murphy  from  the 
floor  and,  placing  him  on  a  stretcher,  carried 
him  down  the  stairs  to  the  ambulance.  A 
morbid  crowd,  attracted  by  the  sight  of  the 
ambulance,  thronged  the  sidewalk. 

John  sat  beside  the  stretcher  with  the  white- 
clad  attendant  as  the  ambulance  sped  up 
Third  street  to  Hill  and  turning  to  the  right 


SPRING  STREET  349 

stopped  with  a  creaking  of  brakes  in  front  of 
the  hospital  door.  He  waited  anxiously  for 
the  surgeons  to  make  their  examination.  Two 
detectives  hurried  from  central  station  to  the 
hospital  and  getting  what  information  John 
had,  dashed  out  to  a  waiting  automobile. 

In  his  anxiety  as  he  waited  for  the  verdict  of 
the  surgeons  he  only  gave  the  detectives  Mur 
phy's  name  and  the  address  of  the  rooming 
house.  They  were  gone  before  he  could  tell 
them  he  knew  Murphy  had  been  "bashed"  by 
the  "Gink's"  men. 

"He's  in  bad  shape,"  the  chief  surgeon  told 
him.  "Skull  fracture;  arms,  jaw,  ribs  and 
nose  broken;  internal  injuries;  cuts  and  bruises; 
lost  a  lot  of  blood." 

"What  can  be  done  to  save  him?",  John 
asked. 

"An  operation  is  about  the  only  thing,"  the 
surgeon  replied.  "He's  pretty  far  gone." 

"Operate  then,"  said  John.  "Get  the  best 
surgeons  in  the  city  to  help  you.  Spare  no 
expense." 

An  hour  later  Murphy  was  on  the  operating 
table  with  three  of  the  most  capable  sur 
geons  in  Los  Angeles  working  with  all  their 
skill  and  science  to  hold  the  flickering  life  in 
his  body.  Not  knowing  where  to  find  Bren- 
nan,  John  telephoned  to  P.  Q. 

"I'll  get  in  touch  with  the  mayor  and  have 


350  SPRING  STREET 

him  tell  Sweeney  to  put  every  available  detec 
tive  on  the  case,"  the  city  editor  said.  "Do 
everything  you  can  for  Murphy.  Be  careful 
yourself.  If  the  'Gink'  knows  what  Murphy 
has  done  he  knows  that  you  and  Brennan  were 
with  him.  He'll  not  stop  at  anything.  I'll  try 
to  find  Brennan." 

While  Murphy  was  in  the  operating  room, 
Chief  Sweeney,  with  a  squad .  of  detectives, 
appeared  at  the  hospital  and  questioned  John. 

"I've  just  talked  with  the  mayor,"  Sweeney 
said.  "He  has  told  me  enough  of  what  has 
happened  to  convince  me  that  the  'Gink's'  men 
did  this.  I'm  going  out  now  to  arrest  Cum- 
mings  on  suspicion  and  hold  him  in  jail  until 
we  see  how  Murphy  comes  out.  If  he  dies, 
I'll  charge  Cummings  with  murder  if  it's  the 
last  tKing  I  do  on  earth." 

John  noticed  as  Sweeney  and  the  detectives 
hurried  away  that  several  of  them  carried 
sawed-off  shotguns. 

A  few  minutes  later  they  wheeled  Murphy 
out  of  the  operating  room  on  a  carrier  and 
placed  him  on  a  cot  in  one  of  the  wards.  John 
approached  one  of  the  surgeons,  swathed  in 
sterilized  clothes  and  apron. 

"Will  he  live,  doctor?"  he  asked  in  trepida 
tion. 

The  surgeon  answered  without  looking  up 


SPRING  STREET  351 

from  the  rubber  gloves  he  was  peeling  from 
his  hands. 

"He  has  a  chance,"  he  said. 

"Much  of  a  chance?"  John  asked. 

"Not  much,  I'm  afraid,"  the  surgeon  said. 
"You  see,  he  is  weak  from  the  loss  of  blood 
and  he  is  hurt  internally.  His  ribs  have  punc 
tured  his  lungs.  Only  one  in  a  hundred  in 
jured  the  way  he  is  ever  recovers.  We'll  do 
everything  we  can  now,  but  we're  almost  help 
less." 

He  went  to  Murphy's  bedside.  The  figure 
stretched  flat  on  the  bed  was  motionless  except 
for  an  almost  indiscernible  trembling  of  the 
covering  that  showed  Murphy  was  still  breath 
ing.  The  face  of  the  unconscious  youth  was 
hidden  by  bandages.  A  pungent  odor  of 
ether  filled  the  room.  As  John  looked  down 
on  the  bed,  praying  that  the  little  flame  of  life 
would  not  be  extinguished  by  the  cold  breath 
of  death,  he  became  conscious  of  the  fact  that 
someone  else  had  entered  and  was  standing 
close  behind  him.  Believing  it  to  be  a  nurse 
he  turned  slowly  to  ask  if  it  was  possible  that 
Murphy  might  regain  consciousness  after  the 
effects  of  the  anesthetic  wore  off.  He  found 
himself  facing  the  mayor. 

For  fully  a  minute  the  mayor  stood  looking 
down  at  Murphy.  Tears  filled  his  eyes  and 


352  SPRING  STREET 

brimmed  over  his  cheeks.  He  let  them  fall  un 
heeded  as  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  John. 

"Gallant,"  he  said,  "if  you  don't  mind,  I'm 
going  to  pray  for  the  life  of  this  boy." 

John  bowed  his  head.  He  saw  the  mayor 
drop  to  his  knees  at  the  side  of  the  bed  so  that 
his  forehead  touched  the  covers. 

"  Thy  will  be  done,'  oh,  Father,"  he  heard 
the  mayor  pray,  "but  we  ask  Thee  in  Thy  gentle 
mercy,  to  spare  us  the  life  of  this  boy.  We  ask 
Thee  to  hold  the  life  in  his  poor,  battered  body; 
to  bring  him  back  to  us.  We  ask  it,  oh,  Lord, 
in  the  name  of  Thy  son;  Amen." 

The  mayor  rose  to  his  feet  and  they  walked 
from  the  room. 

"I  hope  you'll  tell  the  people  of  Los  An 
geles  what  Murphy  saved  them  from,"  said 
the  mayor  as  they  separated  outside  the  hospi 
tal  door.  "Whether  I'm  re-elected  or  not  I'll 
not  rest  until  the  brutes  who  beat  him  are 
brought  to  justice.  You  can  tell  them  that,  too." 

Dusk  was  deepening  into  night  as  John  en 
tered  the  detective  bureau  at  central  station, 
around  the  corner  in  First  street  from  the 
hospital.  He  found  the  two  detectives  who 
made  the  first  investigation  of  the  case  writing 
out  their  reports. 

"Three  men  did  it,"  one  of  them  told  him. 
"They  were  seen  entering  and  leaving  the 
house.  Two  big  fellows  and  a  small,  thin- 


SPRING  STREET  353 

faced  man.  No  one  heard  the  noise  or  sus 
pected  that  anything  was  wrong." 

"No  identification  of  the  men?"  he  asked. 

"Not  yet,"  the  detective  replied.  "We  un 
derstand  the  chief  and  a  bunch  of  the  boys  are 
on  the  case  and  may  make  an  arrest  before 
morning.  By  the  way,  if  you're  a  friend  of 
Murphy's  you'd  better  go  down  to  his  room 
and  take  charge  of  his  things.  There's  no 
lock  on  the  door  now,  you  know,  and  things 
are  liable  to  disappear." 

"Thanks  for  the  tip,"  said  John.  "I'll  at 
tend  to  it." 

He  went  direct  to  Murphy's  room  from 
police  headquarters.  The  room  was  dark  and, 
scratching  a  match,  he  lighted  the  gas  at  a  jet 
in  the  wall.  He  thought  of  how  rapidly  gas 
illumination  in  homes  had  disappeared.  He 
remembered  Consuello's  father  telling  him  that 
as  late  as  1870  there  was  only  one  street  lamp 
— a  gas  one — in  Spring  street,  although  there 
was  agitation  among  the  citizens  to  have  the 
city  council  add  another  light  to  put  "as  far 
south  as  First  street." 

As  he  inspected  the  room  in  the  pale  light 
from  the  gas  flame  he  tried  to  picture  in  his 
mind  how  Murphy  had  tried  to  save  himself 
from  the  three  bruisers.  He  discovered  the 
stain  caused  by  the  spilled  whisky,  the  empty 
bottle  under  the  bed.  Then,  suddenly,  it 


354  SPRING  STREET 

flashed  into  his  mind  that  Murphy  might  have 
been  beaten  to  force  him  to  reveal  the  names 
of  those  who  were  with  him.  He  stopped  his 
work  of  collecting  Murphy's  few  belongings 
as  this  possibility  came  into  his  brain. 

Had  Murphy  told?  Beaten  and  kicked 
and  facing  death  had  he  sought  mercy  by  re 
vealing  who  had  the  evidence  against  Cum- 
mings  and  Gibson?  Or,  had  he  passed  into 
insensibility  keeping  it  a  secret? 

Fie  heard  footsteps  approaching  the  room. 
Perhaps  it  was  Sweeney  and  his  detectives 
coming  to  inspect  the  scene  of  the  brutal  at 
tack.  It  might  be  Brennan. 

The  door  swung  open  and  three  men  en 
tered  the  room  quickly.  John  recognized  one 
of  them  as  "Slim"  Gray. 

He  knew  he  was  face  to  face  with  the  men 
who  had  "got"  Murphy. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

T  N  THE  fraction  of  the  second  that  he  stood 
-*•  facing  "Slim"  Gray  and  the  two  bruisers, 
tense  and  glaring,  the  cool  self-possession  he 
had  acquired  in  his  training  as  a  boxer  over 
came  his  mental  confusion.  With  one  quick 
glance  he  saw  the  cold  hate  gleaming  in 
"Slim's"  eyes  as  he  stood  with  his  back  flat 
against  the  door  and  noticed  that  one  of  the 
"bashers"  wore  brass  knuckles  on  his  right 
fist,  while  the  other  had  pulled  a  black-jack 
from  his  pocket. 

The  iron  bedstead  was  between  him  and 
the  two  thugs.  As  one  of  them  started  for 
ward  John  stooped  and  grasped  the  empty 
whisky  bottle  on  the  floor  at  his  feet.  From 
his  crouching  position  he  leaped  toward  the 
window,  his  only  avenue  of  escape.  Louie — it 
was  he  who  was  armed  with  the  black-jack — 
jumped  at  him  with  a  curse,  his  skull-crashing 
weapon  held  back  to  strike  a  blow.  Coolly,  with 
the  mental  rapidity  he  had  developed  as  a 
boxer,  John  darted  toward  the  bruiser  and  back. 
Tricked  by  the  feint,  Louie  lurched  forward 
with  a  sweeping  blow  of  the  black-jack.  The 
momentum  of  the  swing  of  his  arm  drew  his 
head  down  and  with  a  quick  slashing  move- 


356  SPRING  STREET 

ment,  like  a  pugilist  chopping  with  his  fist, 
John  crashed  the  bottle  against  Louie's  temple. 

The  bottle  shattered  and  Louie,  blood  gush 
ing  from  the  wound,  crumpled  at  his  feet, 
John  tossed  away  the  neck  of  the  bottle  and 
barely  had  time  to  side-step  the  onrush  of  the 
other  thug,  who  struck  viciously  at  him  with 
the  fist  armored  with  the  knuckles.  As  they 
drew  back  John  was  in  the  position  of  a  boxer, 
standing  lightly  on  his  toes,  his  left  hand  ex 
tended  with  the  shoulder  drawn  up  to  pro 
tect  his  chin,  which  rested  against  his  collar 
bone,  his  right  arm  crooked  back.  The  bed 
was  between  him  and  the  door,  whereuSlim" 
stood. 

The  "basher"  swung  up  from  the  hip  with 
his  right  arm,  aiming  for  John's  face.  A 
man  who  "leads,"  or  strikes  first,  with  his  right 
hand,  is  a  target  for  a  trained  fighter.  Ward 
ing  off  the  blow  by  lifting  his  left  arm  so  that 
it  caught  the  descending  fist  on  the  tightened 
muscles  below  his  elbow,  John  stepped  in 
with  a  swift  right-cross  to  his  opponent's  chin. 
A  sharp  pain  shot  through  his  clenched  fist 
and  he  knew  he  had  smashed  a  knuckle  as  it 
crashed  against  the  jawbone. 

His  head  jerking  as  he  received  John's 
punch,  the  thug  reeled  back,  throwing  up  his 
hand  to  cover  his  face.  John  rushed  at  him 
and  sank  his  bruised  right  fist  into  his  middle. 


SPRING  STREET  357 

As  the  fist  clouted  against  his  abdomen  the 
bruiser  grunted  and,  doubling  over,  grabbed 
John  in  his  arms.  John  lifted  his  left  arm  as 
they  clenched  and  pushed  his  elbow  against 
the  other's  throat.  Pulling  himself  out  of  the 
clinch  as  the  "basher's"  hold  weakened  when  the 
elbow  pressed  against  his  neck,  John  whirled 
and  stopped  with  his  back  against  the  wall. 
He  danced  lightly  from  side  to  side  to  confuse 
the  thug,  who  stood  panting  before  him. 

Louie,  only  stunned  by  the  blow  with  the 
bottle,  pulled  himself  to  his  hands  and  knees. 
John  saw  that  his  face  was  smeared  crimson 
from  the  cut  on  his  head.  Realizing  that  the 
"basher"  in  front  of  him  was  "stalling"  for 
time,  waiting  until  Louie  was  on  his  feet  again 
John  darted  to  one  side  and  seized  a  chair, 
swinging  it  up  over  his  shoulder.  His  hand 
with  its  broken  knuckle  was  puffed  and  painful 
and  it  hurt  to  bend  the  fingers  to  grasp  the  chair. 

Louie  was  on  his  feet,  poised  for  a  leap. 
John  threw  the  chair  at  the  "basher"  before  him 
and  dashed  to  the  other  side  of  the  room. 

"I'll  get  him,  Joe,"  Louie  gasped,  wiping  the 
blood  from  his  eyes  and  taking  a  firmer  grip  on 
the  black-jack.  As  Louie  rushed  at  him  John 
seized  the  heavy  water  pitcher  on  a  table  near 
him  and  hurled  it.  With  a  snarl  on  his  lips, 
Louie  ducked  and  the  pitcher  broke  against  the 
wall  behind  him.  Louie  was  smarter  than  Joe 


358  SPRING  STREET 

had  been.  He  "led"  with  his  left  hand  and  as 
the  blow  was  warded  off  he  swung  the  black 
jack  with  his  right.  John  jerked  back  his  head, 
but  the  club  grazed  his  cheek,  tearing  open  the 
flesh.  Before  he  could  recover,  Joe's  brass 
knuckles  crashed  against  his  forehead,  opening 
another  cut. 

John  wabbled  to  his  feet.  His  brain  was 
numbed  and  he  was  blinded  by  the  blood  from 
the  laceration  over  his  eyes.  Feebly  he  lifted 
his  arms  to  protect  his  head.  Joe  pulled  his 
arms  down  from  his  face  and  Louie  drew  back 
his  black-jack  for  the  knockout  blow.  As  he 
was  about  to  strike,  John,  with  the  last  flicker 
ing  move  of  instinctive  self-protection,  sank  to 
the  floor.  With  a  curse,  Louie  lifted  his  foot  to 
kick  the  prone  figure  beneath  him. 

John  nerved  himself  for  the  blow  that  was  to 
knock  him  insensible.  He  knew  it  was  the  end. 
He  heard  a  scuffle  of  feet  and  dimly,  through 
the  blood  from  his  wounds  he  saw  Louie  and 
Joe  step  back  from  him.  He  shut  his  eyes. 
They  were  going  to  kick  him  to  death.  If  he 
could  only — but  why  didn't  they  move?  Why 
didn't  they  kick  him?  What  were  they  waiting 
for? 

Unable  to  believe  his  eyes,  he  saw  the  legs 
of  Louie  and  Joe  take  backward  steps  until  they 
were  back  against  the  wall.  Did  they  think  he 
was  "out"?  Were  they  leaving  him  for  dead? 


SPRING  STREET  359 

Fascinated,  he  stared  at  the  legs  of  the  bruisers 
and  then  he  heard  a  voice,  a  voice  he  recognized. 

"Keep  'em  up,"  the  voice  commanded,  coldly, 
evenly,  "Keep  'em  up.  The  first  one  of  you 
that  tries  moving  gets  it,  understand?" 

Slowly  John  lifted  his  head.  It  ached  split- 
tingly  and  lolled  heavily  on  his  shoulders. 
Weakly  he  pressed  his  hand  against  his  cut 
forehead,  stopping  the  blood  from  dripping 
over  his  eyes.  Blinking  to  clear  his  vision  he 
looked  around  the  room. 

In  the  doorway  stood  Brennan,  a  .45  caliber 
army  model  automatic  in  his  hand;  a  very  dif 
ferent  Brennan  from  the  reporter  John  knew. 
A  Brennan  with  eyes  as  cold  as  the  steel  of  the 
gun  he  gripped;  a  Brennan  with  an  unwavering 
hand  and  a  steady  voice;  a  Brennan  like  the 
hero  of  the  stories  he  told  of  brave  men  leading 
forlorn-hope  charges.  Good  old  Brennan !  He 
had  them,  all  right.  Good  old  Brennan ! 

With  their  backs  to  the  wall,  their  hands 
high  above  their  heads,  stood  "Slim"  Gray, 
Louie  and  Joe,  ghastly  pale,  staring  as  if  they 
were  hypnotized  at  the  pistol  that  pointed 
toward  them. 

"Drop  that  sap !"  Brennan  snapped. 

The  black-jack  fell  from  Louie's  upraised 
hand,  bouncing  as  it  hit  his  shoulder  and 
dropped  to  the  floor. 

"How  badly  are  you  hurt,  Gallant?"  Brennan 


360  SPRING  STREET 

asked,  without  looking  away  from  his  three 
prisoners. 

"I'm — I'm  all  right,"  John  replied,  strug 
gling  to  his  feet.  "Good  old  Brennan,"  he 
added,  essaying  a  smile. 

"Good  old  nothing,"  said  Brennan.  "Wrap 
a  towel  around  that  head  of  yours  and  if  you 
think  you  can  make  it,  get  downstairs  to  a 
phone.  Get  Sweeney;  he's  back  at  central 
station  now." 

John  staunched  the  flow  of  blood  with  a 
towel  and,  faint  from  the  reflex  action  of  the 
blows  he  had  endured,  walked  falteringly  out 
of  the  room.  At  the  door  Brennan  stepped 
to  one  side  to  allow  him  to  pass,  but  never  took 
his  eyes  from  the  three  men  with  their  hands 
above  their  heads. 

The  clerk  at  the  corner  cigar  store  gaped 
when  John,  the  crimson  stained  towel  swathed 
about  his  head,  walked  in  to  the  telephone. 
In  less  than  a  minute  he  had  Chief  Sweeney  on 
the  wire. 

"Chief,  this  is  Gallant— John  Gallant,"  he 
said. 

"Yes,  what  is  it?" 

"We've  got  the  men  who  beat  up  Murphy." 

"Where?" 

"In  Murphy's  room.  Brennan  is  covering 
three  of  them  with  a  gun  now.  Come  as  fast 
as  you  can." 


SPRING  STREET  361 

His  strength  returning  gradually,  John 
walked  a  little  more  steadily  as  he  hurried  back 
to  the  room.  Brennan  and  his  prisoners  were 
in  the  same  positions  as  when  he  left  them. 

"You're  lucky  I  didn't  kill  you  as  soon  as  I 
came  in,"  he  heard  Brennan  say  to  the  three 
against  the  wall.  "If  Gallant  had  been  out  I 
would  have  killed  you.  It's  a  good  long  stretch 
in  San  Quentin  or  the  rope  for  all  of  you  if 
Murphy  dies." 

"Slim"  and  his  two  bruisers  glared  at  their 
captor. 

"I  know  what  you're  thinking,"  Brennan 
continued.  "You're  thinking  about  rushing  me. 
You  think  I  could  only  get  one  of  you  before 
the  other  two  got  me.  Each  of  you  would 
start  right  now  if  you  were  sure  you  weren't 
the  one  I'd  get.  That's  what  you're  thinking 
and  if  you  weren't  all  cowards  you'd  come  at 
me.  Well,  why  don't  you  try  it?  But  before 
you  do,  let  me  show  you  something.  See  that 
picture  of  Jack  Johnson  on  the  wall  over 
there?  See  how  small  the  head  is?  Well, 
watch  this." 

With  a  jerk  of  his  wrist  he  tossed  the  gun 
into  the  air,  caught  it  by  the  butt  and  the  roar 
of  a  shot  shook  the  room.  He  had  fired  a 
second  after  the  pistol  was  in  his  hand.  Where 
Jack  Johnson's  head  had  been  on  the  print  was 
a  hole  about  the  size  of  a  five-cent  piece. 


362  SPRING  STREET 

"Come  on,  now,  try  rushing  me,"  said 
Brennan,  quietly. 

"Slim,"  Louie  and  Joe,  their  eyes  returning 
to  Brennan  from  the  hole  in  the  wall,  con 
tinued  to  stare  at  him  like  hypnotized  men. 

A  white,  scared  face  showed  in  the  door 
way.  It  was  the  proprietor,  roused  by  the 
pistol  shot.  He  was  almost  bowled  over  a 
few  seconds  later  when  Sweeney,  with  a  squad 
of  detectives,  all  with  guns  in  their  hands, 
burst  into  the  room. 

John  saw  them  snap  handcuffs  on  "Slim" 
and  the  two  "bashers"  and  then  the  room  be 
gan  going  around  and  around  and  the  figures 
before  him  began  floating  up  and  down.  There 
was  a  roaring  sound  in  his  ears  and  everything 
went  black.  His  knees  sagging,  he  sank  slowly 

to  the  floor. 

*      *      * 

He  dreamed  a  dream  that  was  half  night 
mare  and  half  ecstasy  before  he  regained  com 
plete  consciousness. 

First  he  was  in  a  room  without  doors 
battling  alone  against  an  endless  line  of  alter 
nate  Louies  and  Joes  who  vanished  when  he 
struck  them.  Then  he  was  on  the  floor  waiting 
to  be  kicked  by  a  pair  of  legs  that  had  no  body 
and  that  tormented  him  by  dancing  a  jig  to  the 
rhythm  of  a  sing-song  rendition  of  "Gunga 
Din." 


SPRING  STREET  363 

When  the  bodiless  legs  disappeared  he  found 
himself  mingling  in  an  every-day  Spring  street 
crowd  with  a  towel  turban  stained  with  blood, 
on  his  head  and  wondering  why  none  paid  the 
slightest  attention  to  him  or  his  strange  head 
gear.  Alma  Sprockett  stopped  him  at  a  cor 
ner  and  begged  him  not  to  tell  something  he 
knew  nothing  of,  and  he  promised  her  he 
wouldn't  tell  and  went  on  his  way  racking  his 
brain  to  remember  what  she  had  said  to  him. 

A  life-size  photograph  of  Consuello  came 
to  life,  stepped  out  of  its  frame  in  a  theater 
lobby  and  sailed  through  a  casement  window 
bordered  with  red  geraniums  until  it  reached 
the  top  of  a  hill,  marked  with  a  sign  board,  on 
which  were  the  words,  "Green  and  Friendly." 
He  sat  at  her  feet  on  the  hilltop  and  told  her 
all  the  earth  was  servant  to  just  the  two  of 
them.  They  were  supremely  happy  sitting 
there,  for  days  and  weeks  and  years,  until  a 
crimson  rain  fell  and  a  terrible  thunder  roared. 
Bolts  of  lightning  crashed  all  around  him  and 
a  splinter  from  one  of  the  bolts  was  imbedded 
in  his  eye  and  his  head  began  to  ache,  and 
then — 

He  opened  his  eyes.  He  was  in  a  bed  at 
the  receiving  hospital.  Putting  a  hand  to  his 
face  he  felt  a  bandage  over  the  cut  in  his 
cheek,  made  by  Louie's  black-jack,  and  gauze, 
held  in  place  by  strips  of  adhesive  tape,  cover- 


364  SPRING  STREET 

ing  the  laceration  over  his  eyes  made  by  Joe's 
brass  knuckles.  His  right  hand  was  in  a  stiff, 
straight  bandage,  the  fingers  held  flat  by 
splints.  Brennan  and  the  chief  surgeon  were 
standing  at  his  bedside. 

"Hello,"  he  said  and  his  voice  sounded  far 
away  from  him. 

"Hello,"  said  Brennan,  "how  are  you  feel 
ing?" 

"My  head  aches,"  he  said. 

"You'll  be  all  right,"  said  the  surgeon. 
"You  fainted  from  nervous  exhaustion  and 
loss  of  blood  and  we  brought  you  down  here 
and  fixed  you  up.  You  cracked  two  knuckles 
of  your  right  hand  and  you  have  lacerations 
that  we  sutured  on  your  forehead  and  your 
cheek.  You  can  get  up  as  soon  as  you  feel 
strong  enough." 

"What  time  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"It's  a  little  after  midnight,"  Brennan  re 
plied,  as  the  surgeon  left  the  room. 

"Tell  me,"  he  asked,  "how  did  it  happen 
that  you  got  there  in  time  to  save  me?" 

"I  telephoned  to  P.  Q.  after  dinner  to  tell 
him  that  I  had  Ben  Smith's  transcript  and  he 
told  me  about  Murphy,"  Brennan  explained. 
"He  told  me  to  find  you  at  the  receiving  hos 
pital  here.  When  I  got  here  they  told  me  you 
had  gone  to  the  detective  bureau  and  at  the 
bureau  I  learned  that  you  had  gone  to  Mur- 


SPRING  STREET  365 

phy's  room.  I  hurried  down  there  and  as  I 
got  near  the  door  of  the  room  I  heard  a  crash. 
It  must  have  been  when  you  threw  the  water 
pitcher. 

"Luckily  I  had  my  gun  with  me.  I  drew  it 
and  pushed  open  the  door.  As  soon  as  they 
saw  me  standing  there  with  the  gun  in  my  hand 
they  lifted  their  hands  above  their  heads  and 
started  backing  up.  You  know  the  rest  of  it." 

"You  saved  my  life,"  said  John. 

"If  you're  going  to  start  talking  like  that 
I'll  leave  you  right  now,  understand?"  said 
Brennan. 

"What  happened  after  I  fainted?"  he  asked, 
realizing  that  Brennan  meant  what  he  said. 

"We  took  'Slim'  and  the  other  two  to  the 
University  station  and  locked  them  up,"  said 
Brennan.  "That  is,  Sweeney  and  his  men 
took  them  while  I  brought  you  here.  I  had 
Sweeney  take  them  out  to  University  station 
because  the  other  reporters  would  find  out 
about  it  if  we  booked  them  at  Central  station 
and  our  whole  story  would  have  been  in  their 
hands." 

"There's  one  thing  I  can't  understand,"  John 
said. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Brennan. 

"W"hy  didn't  'Slim'  or  Louie  and  Joe  shoot 
me  when  I  put  up  a  fight?"  he  asked. 

"That's    easy    to    explain,"    said    Brennan, 


366  SPRING  STREET 

"They  didn't  try  shooting  because  the  sound 
of  a  shot  would  have  roused  the  occupants  of 
the  house  or  have  been  heard  by  someone  on 
the  street.  As  it  is,  'Slim'  and  the  two  others 
have  been  identified  as  the  men  seen  leaving  the 
place  after  Murphy  was  beaten  up." 

"And  how  is  poor  Tim?"  he  asked. 

"There's  very  little  hope  for  him,"  Brennan 
said.  "They've  taken  him  to  the  Clara  Barton 
hospital  and  the  mayor  has  employed  two  more 
physicians  to  stay  with  him  and  do  everything 
they  can  for  him." 

"Has  Sweeney  arrested  the  'Gink'?" 

"No,  Cummings  has  disappeared;  can't  find 
him  anywhere?" 

"What  about  Gibson?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Brennan.  "No  one 
has  tried  to  find  him  yet.  There'll  be  plenty 
of  time  for  that  after  we  come  out  with  our 
blast  in  the  first  edition.  And  that  reminds 
me,  P.  Q.  is  at  the  office  now,  waiting  for  me. 
We'll  work  the  rest  of  the  night  and  have 
everything  ready  to  be  set  in  type  by  seven 
o'clock.  I'm  sorry  you  won't  be  able  to  help  us. 
You  had  better  get  some  rest  so  that  you'll  be 
strong  enough  to  be  on  your  feet  in  the  morn 
ing." 

"Will  you  arrange  to  get  word  to  my 
mother  that  I  won't  be  able  to  get  home?"  he 
asked.  "Tell  her  that  I  must  work  all  night 


SPRING  STREET  367 

at  the  office.  Don't  give  her  any  hint  that  I'm 
hurt." 

"I'll  arrange  it,"  Brennan  assured  him, 
starting  toward  the  door. 

"Just  a  minute,"  said  John,  bringing  his  un- 
bandaged  hand  above  the  covers.  Brennan 
stopped  and,  turning,  saw  the  hand  extended 
toward  him. 

"I  don't  care  what  you  say,  Brennan,"  John 
said,  "you've  got  to  shake  hands  with  me." 

Brennan  hesitated  and  then  returned  to  the 
bedside,  grasping  John's  hand.  For  a  moment 
they  regarded  each  other  silently. 

"You  saved  my  life,  Brennan,  and  I'll  never 
forget  it,"  said  John  slowly.  "If  it  had  not 
been  for  you  I  would  be  where  Murphy  is  and 
you  know  it." 

"If  it  had  not  been  for  Murphy  they  would 
have  got  both  of  us,"  said  Brennan.  "They 
went  to  him  to  try  to  find  out  who  we  were 
and  I  don't  believe  he  told  them." 

"How  was  it  they  returned  to  the  room 
when  I  was  there?"  John  asked. 

"I  don't  know;  they  probably  spotted  you 
when  you  found  Murphy;  but  I'm  willing  to 
stake  my  life  on  it  that  Murphy  was  game  to 
the  last." 

"Brennan,"  said  John,  "I'm  beginning  to 
think  you  have  a  little  faith  in  mankind  after 
all." 


368  SPRING  STREET 

Brennan  smiled  as  he  dropped  John's  hand. 

"Perhaps  I  have,"  he  said.  "Now  go  to 
sleep,"  he  added,  "because  there's  a  great  day 
ahead  of  us."  He  closed  the  door  softly  be 
hind  him,  leaving  John  alone  with  his  thoughts. 

And  his  thoughts  were  of  Consuello.  He 
wondered  where  she  would  be  during  the  "great 
day"  before  them  when  she  read  or  learned 
of  the  exposure  of  Gibson's  alliance  with 
"Gink"  Cummings,  of  the  horrible  pommeling 
given  Murphy,  of  the  attack  upon  himself. 
What  would  Gibson  say  to  her?  What 
COULD  he  say  to  her?  He  wished  that 
Gibson  would  disappear  as  Brennan  had  told 
him  Cummings  had.  If  Gibson  wanted  to  be 
merciful  that's  what  he  would  do,  disappear, 
leave  her  to  think  the  worst  or  the  best  of  him, 
as  she  chose. 

Pondering  over  everything  that  had  occurred 
since  the  first  day  he  met  him,  John  con 
cluded  that  Gibson's  single  weakness,  his  in 
ability  to  give  up  his  social  position  when  he 
found  himself  stranded  financially,  had  worked 
his  ruin.  That  love  of  the  "niceness  of  con 
ventionality,"  as  Consuello  had  described  it; 
that  irresistible  desire  to  live  an  easy  life 
when  he  should  have  worked  to  restore  his 
family  fortune;  had  led  him  into  trouble.  At 
the  moment  when  he  was  "broke,"  when  cir 
cumstances  were  such  that  he  would  be  com- 


SPRING  STREET  369 

pelled  to  withdraw  as  the  society  man  "Gink11 
Cummings,  scheming  to  seize  control  of  the 
city  government,  had  tempted  him  and  he  had 
fallen.  He  sold  himself  to  the  boss  of  the 
underworld  and  became  perfidious  and  a  pup 
pet  so  that  he  might  have  money  and  fame 
while  it  lasted. 

How  Gibson  suffered  by  comparison  with 
the  example  set  by  Consuello !  When  the  vast 
wealth  that  had  once  been  the  Carrillo's  dwin 
dled  and  only  the  few  acres  of  land  with  the 
old  home  was  left,  she  went  to  work  and  was 
loved  and  respected  for  what  she  had  done. 
She  had  not  lost  caste  by  her  venture  into 
worldly  affairs.  That  was  where  Gibson  had 
been  short-sighted.  He  had  believed  that  he 
would  lose  standing  if  he  was  forced  to  work 
for  a  living;  so  he  took  the  easier  way 
and  like  all  easier  ways,  it  wrought  destruction 
of  his  morals,  his  conscience  and  his  reputation. 

From  this  retrospective  philosophizing  with 
the  lesson  that  it  taught,  John  turned  to 
dreaming  of  Consuello  as  the  one  he  loved. 
His  imagination,  from  which  he  slipped  the 
leash  of  worry  and  care,  pictured  for  him  glo 
riously  delightful,  utterly  impossible  scenes — 
Consuello  and  he  on  a  yacht  skimming  the 
rolling  waves  of  the  ocean  off  Catalina,  lei 
surely  inspecting  some  "gabled  foreign  town"; 
she  another  Princess  Patricia  with  "silken 


370  SPRING  STREET 

« 

gowns"  and  "jewels  for  her  hair,"  loving  and 
wedding  him,  a  "commoner"  like  the  real 
princess'  husband,  despite  the  frowns  of  kings 
and  queens,  and  settling  down  to  rule  a  Graus- 
tark-like  little  kingdom. 

When  he  awoke  the  following  morning  a 
hospital  attendant  brought  him  his  suit,  cleaned 
and  pressed,  with  a  new  shirt  and  collar  which, 
he  learned,  had  been  left  for  him  by  Brennan. 
His  head  had  ceased  its  aching  and  after 
breakfast  he  could  only  feel  a  trace  of  the 
weakness  that  had  caused  him  to  faint  the 
night  before. 

As  he  entered  the  local  room  of  the  news 
paper  office  P.  Q.  stopped  work  to  rush  toward 
him  and  Brennan,  looking  up  from  his  type 
writer,  emitted  a  "rousing"  cheer. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

A  LL  that  day  the  giant  presses  roared,  turn- 
**•  ing  out  thousands  upon  thousands  of  the 
newspapers  with  the  story  stripping  the  mask 
oft  Gibson  and  revealing  the  nefarious  plot  be 
tween  him  and  "Gink"  Cummings.  All  day 
long  delivery  trucks  piled  high  with  bundles 
of  the  papers  distributed  them  to  newsboys  in 
the  downtown  district  and  throughout  the  city. 
Never  in  the  history  of  Los  Angeles  had  there 
ever  been  such  a  tremenduous  single-day  issue 
of  a  newspaper. 

Under  the  glaring  headlines  was  Benton's 
flashlight  photograph  of  Gibson  and  Cummings 
emerging  from  the  rear  door  of  the  Spring 
street  saloon  where  their  conversation  had  been 
overheard  by  the  reporters.  The  picture  was 
clear  enough  to  enable  anyone  who  knew  either 
of  them  to  recognize  them  both.  On  one  side 
of  the  cut  was  Brennan's  signed  and  copy 
righted  story  of  the  complete  exposure  of  the 
alliance  between  the  police  commissioner  and 
the  underworld  boss,  a  clear,  concise,  dramatic 
narrative  of  every  event  leading  up  to  the  de- 
noument.  On  the  other  side  was  Ben  Smith's 
stenographic  transcript  of  the  conversation  be 
tween  the  conspirators,  with  all  its  tell-tale  and 
condemning  elements. 


372  SPRING  STREET 

Beneath  the  cut  were  reproductions  of  affi 
davits  by  John,  Brennan,  Smith,  the  mayor, 
"Big  Jim"  Hatch  and  Evelyn  Hatch,  swearing 
to  the  facts  contained  in  Brennan's  comprehen 
sive  story  that  jumped  from  the  first  page  and 
filled  the  second.  On  pages  three  and  four 
were  photographs  of  Gibson  and  the  mayor; 
Brennan  and  Gallant,  his  face  in  bandages; 
Murphy  on  his  cot  at  the  hospital;  Murphy's 
room;  the  mayor's  automobile  with  its  shat 
tered  windshield;  "Gink"  Cummings;  "Slim" 
Gray,  Joe  and  Louie  and  reproductions  of 
their  black-jack  and  brass  knuckles. 

There  were  separate  stories  dealing  in  detail 
with  John's  experience  in  Gibson's  raid  on  the 
Spring  street  bookmakers;  the  regulation  of  the 
crime  wave  by  Cummings  to  enable  Gibson  to 
add  to  his  false  reputation  as  the  feared  enemy 
of  crooks;  "Big  Jim"  Hatch's  story  of  how  he 
had  been  arrested  by  Gibson  because  he  would 
not  split  money  he  stole  in  bunko  swindles  with 
Cummings;  the  "beating  up"  of  Murphy  and 
the  attack  on  John;  Evelyn  Hatch's  corrobo- 
ration  of  her  husband's  claims  and  the  pistol 
shots  fired  by  either  Gibson  or  Cummings,  or 
both,  the  night  they  were  trapped  in  the  saloon. 
A  strongly-worded  editorial  branded  Gibson  as 
the  worst  traitor  the  city  had  ever  known  and 
demanded  his  immediate  retirement  as  a  police 
commissioner  and  candidate  for  mayor.  Police 


SPRING  STREET  373 

detectives  it  was  announced,  were  searching  for 
Cummings,  who  would  be  arrested  as  soon  as 
he  was  located,  and  held  for  murder  if  Mur 
phy  died. 

Mr.  Phillips,  the  publisher,  called  John, 
Brennan  and  P.  Q.  to  his  private  office  and 
after  he  had  commended  them  for  their  work 
they  rejoiced  together,  not  only  because  their 
paper  had  frustrated  the  scheming  "Gink"  and 
exposed  Gibson,  his  tool,  but  because  they  had 
"beat"  all  other  papers  in  the  city  with  the 
story,  acknowledged  to  be  the  greatest  "scoop" 
ever  scored  in  Los  Angeles. 

A  master  musician  lives  for  the  applause  of 
his  audiences;  a  great  discoverer  or  inventor 
has  his  public  acclaim;  a  statesman  or  public 
benefactor  is  rewarded  by  the  voice  of  the 
people ;  but  the  gratification  of  a  newspaper 
man  in  having  accomplished  a  notable  achieve 
ment  for  his  paper  is  his  only  recompense  and 
it  is  sufficient. 

No  medals  are  pinned  on  his  chest,  no  roar 
of  applause  comes  up  to  him  from  the  multi 
tudes,  but  he  is  satisfied.  His  glory  is  his  own 
and  he  is  content. 

Two  hours  after  the  first  edition  was  on 
the  streets,  the  publisher  received  a  hastily  ap 
pointed  committee  representing  the  Church 
Federation,  the  women's  clubs  and  other  or 
ganizations  that  had  supported  and  indorsed 


374  SPRING  STREET 

Gibson  as  a  candidate  for  mayor.  The  evi 
dence,  no  more  than  what  had  been  published, 
was  certified  to  this  committee.  The  Church 
Federation  was  the  first  to  act.  Unable  to 
locate  Gibson  to  question  him  personally  con 
cerning  the  exposure  and  accepting  the  evi 
dence  against  him  as  final,  the  federation  au 
thorized  the  publication  of  its  withdrawal  of 
indorsement  of  him  as  a  candidate  for  mayor 
and  an  expression  of  appreciation  of  the  news 
paper's  work  in  bringing  the  truth  to  light. 
Similar  action  by  the  other  organizations  that 
had  been  deceived  by  Gibson  followed  quickly 
and  before  night  his  political  strength  had  melt 
ed  away  to  nothing.  Forgotten  eyen  was  his 
sensational  capture  of  "Red  Mike,"  now  serv 
ing  a  life  sentence  at  San  Quentin  for  his 
attempt  to  wreck  and  rob  the  Southern  Pacific 
"Lark"  train. 

Every  newspaper  reporter  in  Los  Angeles 
was  engaged  in  the  search  for  Gibson  that 
followed  the  publication  of  the  exposure  of 
his  plot  with  Cummings.  The  other  papers, 
anxious  to  retaliate  by  obtaining  the  first 
statement  from  Gibson  for  the  blow  given  them 
when  they  were  "scooped"  combined  their 
forces  in  a  frantic  effort  to  find  him  before  John 
and  Brennan  could  do  so. 

The  missing  man's  office  and  apartment  were 
closed.  His  secretary,  located  after  a  search 


SPRING  STREET  375 

of  several  hours,  could  give  no  information 
concerning  his  disappearance.  The  railroad, 
steamship  and  automobile  bus  stations  had  sold 
no  ticket  to  anyone  answering  his  description. 
He  seemed  to  have  vanished  completely.  A 
theory  was  advanced  that  he  had  fled  with 
"Gink"  Cummings  and  this  was  gradually  ac 
cepted  generally  as  the  hours  passed  and  no 
trace  of  him  could  be  found. 

Brennan  waited  until  they  were  alone  before 
he  suggested  to  John  that  Consuello  might  be 
able  to  furnish  a  clew  to  .  Gibson's  where 
abouts.  Thoughts  of  her  had  been  flashing  in 
and  out  of  John's  mind  during  the  excitement 
of  the  morning.  He  realized  that  if  anyone 
knew  where  Gibson  was  it  would  be  Consuello, 
and  again  he  had  the  disheartening  apprehen 
sion  that,  faithful  to  her  love,  she  might  be 
in  flight  with  the  man  she  was  to  have  married. 

"I  don't  like  to  speak  of  it — she's  probably 
very  much  upset  by  what  has  happened  today 
— but  there's  only  one  person  who  may  know 
where  Gibson  is,"  said  Brennan,  "and  that's 
Miss  Carrillo." 

"I'd  rather  do  almost  anything  than  face  her, 
today,"  said  John. 

"You  mean  with  your  face  bandaged  up  the 
way  it  is?"  Brennan  asked,  a  twinkle  in  his 
eyes. 

"I  don't  know  what  she  will  think  of  me," 


376  SPRING  STREET 

John  said,  ignoring  the  jest.  "She  has  be 
lieved  in  Gibson  and  she  may  think  that  what 
I  have  helped  to  do  is  a  violation  of  the  friend 
ship  between  us  and  that  I  am  an  ungrateful 
and  deceitful  wretch." 

"Don't  you  want  to  see  her  and  explain 
things  to  her?" 

"No,  not  until  she  sends  for  me." 

"Suppose  she  never  sends  for  you — what 
then?" 

"Then  I'll  know  that  she  never  wants  to 
see  me  and — and — that  will  be  the  end  of  it, 
I  suppose." 

They  were  silent  for  a  moment  and  then, 
while  John  was  pondering  over  the  thoughts 
that  were  in  his  mind  when  he  had  said,  "The 
end  of  it,  I  suppose,"  Brennan  without  another 
word,  quoted  a  quatrain  from  the  verse  that  he 
had  recited  while  they  were  waiting  to  over 
hear  the  conversation  between  Gibson  and 
Cummings : 

"So  long  as  Pleasure  calls  us  up, 
And  duty  drives  us  down, 
If  you  love  me  as  I  love  you, 
What  pair  so  happy  as  we  two?" 

John  glanced  up  quickly  and  saw  that  Bren 
nan  was  pretending  he  just  happened  to  think 
of  the  verse  and  had  quoted  it  with  no  partic 
ular  intention  or  reference  to  the  thoughts  of 
either  of  them. 


SPRING  STREET  377 

"  'And  duty  drives  us  down,'  "  he  repeated, 
smiling. 

A  little  later  all  thoughts  of  Gibson  and  the 
suggestion  that  Consuello  be  consulted  in  the 
search  for  him  fled  from  their  heads  when 
they  were  called  by  telephone  and  told  that 
Murphy  was  sinking  rapidly  and  was  not  ex 
pected  to  live  many  more  hours.  Together 
they  hurried  to  the  Clara  Barton  hospital. 

"I  wish  he  could  know  that  the  brutes  who 
beat  him  have  been  arrested,"  said  Brennan  as 
they  turned  west  into  Fifth  street  from  Broad 
way.  "I  tried  to  talk  to  them,  to  find  out 
from  them  what  poor  Tim  said  and  did  before 
they  knocked  him  out,  but  they  wouldn't  an 
swer.  They  know  what  they're  up  against 
if  he  dies  and  their  lawyer  has  told  them  to 
keep  their  mouths  shut.  I  had  the  satisfaction 
of  telling  them,  though,  that  I'd  be  on  hand  to 
write  the  story  when  they  are  hanged  and  that 
I  was  looking  forward  to  the  assignment. 
'Slim'  almost  broke  down  when  I  said  it." 

The  mayor,  two  doctors  and  a  nurse  were 
in  the  room  when  they  entered.  Murphy  lay 
inert  on  the  bed.  He  had  never  regained  con 
sciousness,  the  doctors  said,  and  he  was  in  such 
a  weakened  condition  that  only  a  miracle  be 
yond  the  skill  of  surgery  and  medicine  could 
save  him.  The  mayor  looked  at  them  in  si 
lence  as  they  approached  the  bed  beside  which 


378  SPRING  STREET 

he  was  seated  in  a  chair.  They  saw  that  there 
were  tears  in  his  eyes,  tears  that  he  was  not 
ashamed  of  others  seeing. 

For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  they  stood  at  the 
bedside  while  one  of  the  doctors  frequently 
felt  Murphy's  wrist  to  catch  the  fluttering 
pulse.  Then  a  sound  came  from  the  bandaged 
head  and  the  doctor  leaned  over,  putting  his 
ear  close  to  the  hidden  face.  They  heard  the 
sound  again  and  realized  it  was  a  whisper. 

"He's  saying  something  about  the  Gallant 
kid,"  said  the  doctor  looking  up. 

John  moved  to  the  head  of  the  bed  and, 
leaning  over  it,  said: 

"Yes,  Murphy;  I'm  here." 

The  whisper  rose  a  little  becoming  audible 
throughout  the  room. 

"I'm  croaking — I  guess — ain't  I?"  it  asked. 

"You're  all  right — Tim,"  John  managed  to 
say. 

"I  didn't  squeal  —  kid  —  they  got  me  —  I 
didn't  tell  'em  it  was  you  and  Brennan." 

"We  know  you  didn't,  Murphy." 

"I  wanna  tell  ya  something — before  I  go — 
see?"  The  whisper  became  fainter.  "I  wasn't 
workin'  for  ya — for  da  jack — ya  gave  me — - 
see?  I  did  it  'cause — my  old  man — my  old 
man "  The  whisper  stopped. 

"Yes,  Tim." 


SPRING  STREET  379 

"  'Cause  —  my  old  man—  my  —  old  —  man  — 
was  —  was  —  'Red  Mike,'  —  see?" 

A  quick  intake  of  breath  by  Brennan  was  the 
only  sound  that  broke  the  tense  silence. 

"So  —  I  —  wasn't  —  no  —  dirty  —  stool  —  pigeon 
-  "  The  whisper  stopped  again.  Murphy 
drew  his  last  breath  and  with  it  he  said  his 
last  word  : 


The  news  of  Murphy's  death  was  printed  in 
the  late  editions.  His  voice  shaking  with  sup 
pressed  emotion,  Brennan  dictated  the  brief 
announcement  of  the  passing  of  the  twisted- 
nose  youth  by  telephone  to  the  office. 

"Tim  Murphy,  who  was  brutally  beaten  by 
'Gink'  Cummings'  thugs  yesterday,  died  at  the 
Clara  Barton  hospital  as  a  result  of  his  in 
juries  late  today,"  Brennan  said  over  the  phone. 
At  the  other  end  of  the  wire  a  reporter  was 
taking  the  dictation  on  a  typewriter.  "Before 
he  died  Murphy  regained  consciousness  long 
enough  to  disclose  that  he  was  the  son  of  'Red 
Mike,'  now  serving  a  life  sentence  for  having 
attempted  to  wreck  the  Southern  Pacific  'Lark.' 
It  was  because  he  believed  his  father  had  been 
the  victim  of  former  Police  Commissioner 
Gibsons'  lust  for  glory,  he  said,  that  he  aided 
in  disclosing  Gibson's  plot  with  Cummings  to 
seize  control  of  the  city  government.  His 


380  SPRING  STREET 

death  means  that  'Slim'  Gray,  Cummings' 
right-hand  man,  and  his  two  strong-arm  men 
now  under  arrest,  will  be  charged  with  murder 
and  that  a  murder  complaint  will  be  issued 
against  Cummings." 

They  were  silent  as  they  wove  their  way 
through  the  hurrying  streams  of  men  and 
women  in  Fifth  street  homeward  bound  after 
the  work  of  the  day  in  downtown  stores  and 
offices.  On  the  corners  newsboys  were  still 
selling  editions  of  their  paper  with  the  expo 
sure  of  the  Gibson-Cummings  plot  as  fast  as 
they  could  hand  them  out.  They  saw  several 
men  stop  where  they  had  bought  the  paper  and 
stand,  jostled  by  the  crowd,  reading  the  story 
absorbedly,  apparently  amazed  by  what  was 
on  the  printed  page  beneath  their  eyes. 

From  the  corner  of  Fifth  and  Broadway, 
where  he  left  Brennan  waiting  for  a  street  car, 
John  went  to  the  receiving  hospital  to  have  the 
wounds  on  his  face  and  his  maimed  hand 
dressed  again  before  he  started  home.  The 
gauze  bandages  on  his  forehead  and  cheek 
were  replaced  with  strips  of  medicated  plaster 
which  were  less  conspicuous,  but  it  would  be 
more  than  two  weeks,  the  hospital  surgeon  told 
him,  before  the  splints  could  be  removed  from 
his  hand. 

His  mother  was  at  the  door  to  meet  him 
wrhen  he  arrived  home.  Her  face  paled  as  she 


SPRING  STREET  381 

saw  the  plaster  hiding  the  cuts  on  his  cheek 
and  forehead  and  the  bandage  on  his  hand. 
He  took  her  in  his  arms  quickly. 

"I'm  all  right,  mother,  dearest,"  he  said. 
"Don't  worry,  I'm  all  right." 

"My  boy,  my  boy!  Why  didn't  you  let  me 
know  you  were  hurt?" 

"There,  there,  mother,"  he  said,  softly  pat 
ting  her  with  his  uninjured  hand.  "It's  noth 
ing  to  worry  about.  I've  only  a  couple  of 
scratches  on  my  face  and  my  hand  is  hurt  a 
little." 

He  led  her  into  the  living  room  and,  seating 
her  in  a  rocking  chair,  he  dropped  to  his  knees 
at  her  feet,  as  he  had  in  the  grief  and  despair 
that  stunned  him  when  his  father  died.  With 
caresses  and  soft  words  of  assurance  he  soothed 
her  until  her  dismay  left  her.  At  dinner, 
which  had  been  waiting  for  him,  he  told  her 
everything  that  had  occurred  since  he  left  her 
twenty-four  hours  past.  At  the  end  of  his 
story  he  explained  to  her  what  it  would  all 
mean  to  him. 

"The  'chief,'  that  is  Mr.  Phillips,  our  pub 
lisher,  has  promised  me  a  contract  at  double 
what  I'm  getting  now,"  he  told  her.  "And, 
besides,  he  says  Brennan  and  I  are  entitled  to  a 
bonus  for  what  we've  done.  It  means,  mother, 
dearest,  that  I've  made  good;  that  I've  arrived 
as  a  newspaper  man." 


382  SPRING  STREET 

"You  know  how  proud  I  am  of  you,  John," 
Mrs.  Gallant  said.  "I  never  imagined  that 
newspaper  work  was  so  strenuous.  I  thought 
a  reporter's  work  was  writing  news  instead  of 
making  it." 

"Newspapers,  I  have  learned,  mother,  are 
vigilant  guards  of  the  interests  of  the  people," 
he  said.  "It  is  a  newspaper's  duty  to  inform 
the  public  of  what  occurs  and  to  prevent  as 
well  as  condemn  wrong.  Mr.  Phillips  told  us 
that  the  unmasking  of  Gibson  was  newspaper 
enterprise  by  which  the  city  as  well  as  the  paper 
benefited.  Thousands  of  things  not  as  con 
spicuous  as  this  are  done  every  year  by  a  news 
paper  and  its  reporters  and  editors. 

"Without  publicity  wrong  would  go  unde 
tected  and  unpunished.  Think  of  v/hat  would 
have  happened  if  Gibson  had  been  elected 
mayor  of  Los  Angeles.  For  at  least  four  years 
'Gink'  Cummings  would  have  ruled  the  city  and 
you  can  imagine  what  that  would  have  meant." 

They  were  about  to  leave  the  supper  table 
when  Mrs.  Sprockett,  weeping  hysterically, 
appeared  in  a  state  of  excitement  that  alarmed 
them.  Wringing  her  hands,  sobbing  distract 
edly,  she  flung  herself  into  a  chair  and  moaned 
in  such  a  way  that  Mrs.  Gallant  hurried  to  her 
side  anxiously. 

"My  Alma!  My  Alma!  My  girl!"  Mrs. 
Sprockett  wept. 


SPRING  STREET  383 

"What  is  it?  Tell  us.  Can  we  help?" 
asked  Mrs.  Gallant  while  John  had  a  momen 
tary  apprehension  that  Mrs.  Sprockett's  condi 
tion  might  be  the  result  of  a  discovery  that  her 
daughter  had  visited  the  corner  motion  picture 
theater  surreptitiously. 

"She's  gone,"  Mrs.  Sprockett  gasped. 

"Gone?"    Mrs.  Gallant  exclaimed. 

"Gone,"  Mrs.  Sprockett  repeated,  and  then, 
with  a  sob  of  despair,  she  added,  "Kidnaped!" 

"You  mean  she  has  disappeared?"  asked 
John,  feeling  that  her  fear  that  Alma  had  been 
abducted  might  be  far-fetched. 

"She  has  been  gone  since  morning,"  contin 
ued  Mrs.  Sprockett,  a  little  calmed  by  the 
sound  of  a  masculine  voice.  "Ever  since  morn 
ing.  Someone  has  stolen  her.  Oh,  my  little 
girl;  someone  has  stolen  her.  What  shall  1 
do?  What  shall  I  do?" 

"Try  to  calm  yourself,"  urged  Mrs.  Gallant. 
"She  will  probably  return  before  long." 

"She  left  no  note?  Gave  no  warning?" 
John  asked.  "She  may  have  run  away  of  her 
own  accord,  you  know,"  he  added. 

Mrs.  Sprockett  stopped  her  sobbing  and  sat 
upright  in  her  chair.  Indignation  blazed  in  her 
eyes. 

"How  dare  you,  sir?  How  dare  you?"  she 
demanded,  furiously.  "How  dare  you  stand 
there  and  tell  me  that  my  Alma  left  me  of  her 


384  SPRING  STREET 

own  free  will?  My  Alma  leave  her  mother 
who  loves  her  so?  My  Alma  run  away  like 
some  common  scamp?  I  didn't  come  here  to 
be  insulted  like  that,  sir!" 

A  look  from  his  mother  caused  John  to 
repress  an  inclination  to  ask  her  to  tell  him 
really  why  she  came  to  them. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  apologized.  "I  didn't  mean 
to  insinuate " 

"You  did!  You  did!  You  stood  up  there 
and  told  me  that  my  little  girl  who  loves  her 
mother  ran  away  from  home,"  Mrs.  Sprockett 
cried,  irrationally.  "That's  what  you  did !  You 
stood  up  there " 

"I'm  sorry,"  interrupted  John,  moving  from 
the  room  to  avoid  the  outburst. 

He  stepped  out  on  the  porch  and  found 
Mrs.  Sprockett's  husband,  coatless  and  collar- 
less  as  usual,  with  the  same  weary  look  about 
his  eyes  and  the  same  hopeless  droop  of  his 
narrow,  rounded  shoulders,  mounting  the  steps. 
Across  the  street,  in  the  Sprockett  home,  the 
baby  wailed  and  fretted. 

"Beg  pardon,"  began  Mrs.  Sprockett's  hus 
band.  "I  just  thought " 

"Yes,  she's  inside,"  said  John,  anticipating 
the  inevitable  question. 

Instead  of  moving  on  into  the  house  Mrs. 
Sprockett's  husband  stood  where  he  had 
stopped. 


SPRING  STREET  385 

"Our  Alma "  he  began. 

"If  you  want  my  advice,"  said  John,  inter 
rupting  again,  "I  would  wait  until  morning  if 
I  were  you  and  then  ask  the  police  to  help  you 
find  her." 

No  storm  of  protest  came  from  Mrs. 
Sprocket's  husband.  The  instinctive  fraternal- 
ism  of  man  between  man  caused  him  to  signal, 
with  a  nod  of  his  head,  for  John  to  come 
closer  to  him.  With  frequent  apprehensive 
glances  toward  the  door,  he  whispered : 

"Alma's  not  a  bad  girl,  but  she's  been  held 
down  too  much.  She's  only  sixteen  and  she 
likes  pretty  things  and  picture  shows  and  other 
things  a  girl  of  her  age  likes  naturally.  It 
wouldn't  surprise  me  a  bit  if  she's  just  picked 
up  and  left  to  go  to  work  some  place  and  have 
a  little  more  freedom.  She's  not  a  bad  girl, 
she's — she's — just  a  girl,  that's  all,  and  she 
wants  to  do  what  other  girls  do.  But,  of 
course,  I  want  her  back." 

John's  sympathy  swept  away  the  anger  that 
had  surged  through  him  when  Mrs.  Sprockett 
became  irate. 

"I  think  you're  right,"  he  said,  remembering 
how  Alma  had  begged  him  to  refrain  from  tell 
ing  anyone  that  he  had  seen  her  leaving  the 
picture  show. 

"Don't  say  a  word  about  what  I've  said  to 
you,  will  you?"  asked  Mrs.  Sprockett's  hus- 


386  SPRING  STREET 

band,  involuntarily  shrinking  away  from  the 
steps. 

"Never  fear,"  John  assured  him,  "and  if  I 
can  help,  let  me  know." 

"Thanks,  I  will,  but  Maud — well — you 
know  how  it  is — you  know — sometimes,"  said 
Mrs.  Sprockett's  husband. 

"I  know,"  said  John,  and  Sprockett  hurried 
back  across  the  street.  A  few  minutes  later 
the  baby's  wailing  stopped.  Mrs.  Sprockett's 
husband  appeared  on  the  porch  of  the  Sprock 
ett  house  with  a  bundle  of  blankets  in  his  arms 
and  pacing  back  and  forth,  whistled  a  familiar 
tune  as  a  lullaby.  John  listened  and  distin 
guished  the  notes  of  the  father's  whistling  and 
smiled  to  himself  as  he  recognized  it  as  an  off- 
key  variation  of  "The  Merry  Widow  Waltz." 

Mrs.  Sprockett,  still  sobbing,  and  Mrs.  Gal 
lant,  with  her  arm  around  her,  emerged  from 
the  house. 

"I'm  going  to  keep  Mrs.  Sprockett  company 
until  she  can  rest,"  Mrs.  Gallant  explained. 

John  watched  them  cross  the  street  and 
saw  the  door  close  behind  them.  Soon  the 
whistling  ceased  and  Sprockett  and  the  baby 
went  inside. 

For  half  an  hour  John  lolled  on  the  porch, 
pondering  over  Alma's  disappearance,  the 
abjectedness  of  Mrs.  Sprockett's  husband  and 
the  spectacle  of  Mrs.  Sprockett's  wilfulness. 


SPRING  STREET  387 

Had  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sprockett  ever,  ever  been 
deeply  in  love,  exulting  in  the  happiness  before 
them  in  married  life?  How  miserable  it  was 
that  Sprockett  had  to  whisper  to  him  unot  to 
tell,"  exactly  as  Alma  had? 

He  found  his  thoughts  distressful  and  was 
about  to  rise,  planning  an  hour  with  his  books 
before  going  to  sleep,  when  an  automobile — 
he  knew  by  the  outline  it  was  a  taxicab — 
stopped  before  the  house.  The  driver  opened 
the  door  and  a  figure  stepped  out,  hurrying  up 
toward  him. 

As  he  came  to  his  feet  he  saw  that  it  was  a 
girl  who  was  approaching  him. 

uMr.  Gallant?"  a  familiar  voice  asked. 

"Yes." 

The  figure  came  closer  to  him  and  he  saw 
that  it  was  Consuello's  friend  and  companion, 
Betty. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A  BASHED  by  Betty's  unexpected  appear- 
*  *•  ance  at  his  home  and  with  a  sudden  fear 
that  something  had  happened  to  Consuello  pos 
sessing  him,  John  waited  for  her  to  speak.  He 
noticed  that  she  had  not  dismissed  the  cab  that 
waited  at  the  curb. 

"Can  you  come  with  me  immediately?"  she 
asked,  quickly.  "I  want  you  to  see  Consuello, 
tonight." 

"Did  she  send  you  for  me?"  he  entreated. 

"No,  but  I  know  that  she  wants  you,"  she 
replied. 

"Are  you  sure?"  he  persisted. 

"Don't  be  a  foolish  boy,"  she  said,  with  a 
gesture  of  impatience.  "No  one  in  the  world 
knows  Consuello  as  well  as  I  do.  I  am  doing 
this  for  her.  Do  you  think  for  a  moment  that 
I  would  be  here  if  I  wasn't  certain  I  was  doing 
the  proper  thing?" 

"I  know  she  trusts  you,"  he  said,  reassured 
by  her  mild  vexation. 

"Hurry,  then;  I'll  explain  things  while  we're 
on  our  way.  I'll  wait  for  you  in  the  cab,"  she 
said. 

Mrs.  Sprockett's  husband  answered  the  door 
when  he  crossed  the  street  to  the  Sprockett 


SPRING  STREET  389 

home  to  tell  his  mother  he  had  been   called 
away. 

"Tell  mother  that  I'm  going  to  see  a  friend 
and  that  I'll  be  home  before  it  is  late,"  he 
said.  "Tell  her  there's  no  need  to  worry  about 


me." 


"Just  a  minute  and  I'll  call  her,"  Mrs. 
Sprockett's  husband  suggested. 

"No,  just  give  her  my  message,"  he  said, 
apprehensive  of  the  probable  consequences  of 
telling  his  mother  that  it  was  Consuello  he  was 
going  to  meet. 

As  the  cab  started  away  from  the  curb  he 
turned  to  Betty  with  the  question  that,  in  his 
mind,  had  been  begging  for  an  answer  from 
the  moment  he  recognized  her. 

"How  is  she?"  he  asked,  his  voice  betraying 
his  anxiety. 

"She  is  very  brave,"  Betty  said,  earnestly. 

"Perhaps  I  should  not  ask  you  this,  but  has 
she  seen — Gibson?"  So  much,  he  felt,  depend 
ed  on  her  reply  to  this  question.  If  Consuello 
had  already  talked  with  Gibson  and  Betty 
divined  that  she  wanted  to  see  him,  then 

"Perhaps  I  should  not  tell  you,  but — she 
has  talked  to  him.  That's  as  much  as  I  will 
tell  you.  The  rest  must  come  from  her," 
Betty  replied. 

She  had  talked  with  Gibson  and  yet  she 
wanted  to  see  him !  Or,  could  Betty  be  mis- 


390  SPRING  STREET 

taken?  Had  she  interpreted  Consuello's  mood 
erroneously  in  coming  for  him? 

"Forgive  me  for  my  doubtfulness,"  he  said, 
"but  are  you  certain  that  she  wants  to  see  me?" 

A  shade  of  exasperation  crossed  Betty's  face. 

"You  said  a  moment  ago  that  you  knew 
Consuello  trusted  me,"  she  said.  "If  she  trusts 
me,  then  why  can't  you?" 

Reassured  by  this  pertinent  counter  question 
he  deduced  that  Betty,  with  the  welfare  of  Con 
suello  at  heart,  had  concluded  that  he  might  be 
able  to  furnish  the  solace  her  companion  needed 
in  her  hour  of  trial.  The  ecstasy  that  had 
thrilled  him  when  he  first  realized  that  he 
loved  Consuello  returned  to  him  as  the  cab 
sped  through  the  streets.  She  knew  now  why 
he  had  beseeched  her  to  think  of  him  as  doing 
what  he  thought  was  right.  And  she  had  kept 
her  promise !  A  glance  through  the  window 
of  the  cab  at  a  lighted  corner  told  him  that 
they  were  nearing  their  destination. 

"I'm  going  to  leave  you  alone  with  her," 
Betty  said,  with  the  frankness  that  she  had 
displayed  when  they  first  met.  "I  need  not  ask 
you  to  be  very  considerate,  to  do  everything 
you  can  to  comfort  her.  In  my  heart  I  feel 
that  what  has  happened  is  all  for  the  best. 
How  dreadful  it  would  have  been  if  she  had 
been  compelled  to  make  this  discovery  for  her 
self  after  they  were  married. 


SPRING  STREET  391 

"I  told  her  that  I  would  be  away  until  late; 
that  I  was  busy.  We'll  stop  at  the  corner  to 
let  you  out,  because  she  knows  that  I  took  a 
cab  when  I  left  and  she  might  suspect  that  I 
went  for  you.  Here  we  are." 

She  called  to  the  driver  to  stop. 

"It  was  kind  of  you "  he  began  as  he 

stood  at  the  cab  door  after  alighting.  She 
stopped  him  with  a  gesture  of  her  hand.  Then, 
leaning  forward  a  little,  her  eyes  dancing  with 
a  smile,  she  said: 

"Don't  you  know  that  I  know  you  love  her?" 

The  door  closed  quickly  and  the  cab  spurted 
away  from  the  curb,  leaving  him  standing 
bewildered  and  yet  overjoyed  by  the  audacious 
words  she  had  spoken.  So  that  was  why  she 
had  called  him  to  Consuello !  If  Betty  knew 
it,  then  Consuello,  too,  must  realize  that  he 
loved  her.  The  thought  frightened  him.  It 
had  never  occurred  to  him  before  that  she 
might  know.  Somehow,  he  had  not  dared  to 
imagine  that  she  cared  enough  even  to  guess 
that  he  loved  her. 

He  went  slowly  to  the  opening  in  the  hedge 
of  boxwood  that  lined  the  sidewalk  in  front  of 
Consuello's  artistic  little  dream  home  and 
turned  into  the  pathway  between  the  patches 
of  rosebushes.  A  heavy  fragrance  from  the 
blossoms  filled  the  still  night  air.  As  he 
stepped  on  to  the  porch  and  reached  for  the 


392  SPRING  STREET 

knocker  with  his  left  hand  he  recalled  suddenly 
that  his  face  bore  strips  of  plaster  over  his 
wounds  and  that  his  right  hand  was  held  rigid 
in  splints.  The  hesitancy  that  this  recollection 
gave  forsook  him  when  he  remembered  that 
Betty  had  made  no  comment  on  his  appearance, 
probably  because  she  had  seen  the  photograph 
of  him  that  had  been  published  in  the  paper. 
Emboldened  he  rapped  with  the  knocker. 

She  wore  the  same  simple  white  frock  that 
he  had  admired  when  they  first  met.  For  a 
moment  she  stood  with  her  hand  on  the  knob 
of  the  door,  the  look  of  surprise  in  her  eyes 
fading  to  an  expression  of  mingled  pleasure 
and  perplexity. 

"Come  in,"  she  invited. 

He  saw  that  a  tender  light,  the  softness  of 
sympathy,  came  into  her  eyes  when  she  noticed 
the  plasters  on  his  forehead  and  cheek.  Then, 
when  she  extended  her  hand  to  him  and  he 
stood  awkwardly  unable  to  take  it  without  first 
disposing  of  the  hat  he  held,  she  apologized 
for  her  forgetfulness. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said,  quickly  compassionate. 

"It's  nothing,"  he  said.  "Only  a  scratch  or 
two,  that's  all." 

They  crossed  to  the  fireplace,  where  she  took 
a  chair  near  the  rose  shaded  table  lamp,  the 
only  illumination  in  the  room.  He  sat  oppo- 


SPRING  STREET  393 

site  her,  his  back  toward  the  door,  waiting  for 
her  to  speak. 

"I  was  thinking  of  you  when  you  rapped  on 
the  door,"  she  said.  "I  was  alone  beside  my 
window  looking  out  toward  my  hill.  The 
darkness  of  the  night  prevented  me  from  seeing 
it,  but  I  knew  it  was  there.  Though  I  could 
not  see  it,  I  looked  to  it  for  comfort." 

"It  won't  be  hidden  from  you  long,"  he  said. 
"When  the  morning  comes  it  will  be  there  and 
the  darkness  will  be  gone." 

"When  the  morning  comes,"  she  said,  softly, 
"there'll  be  sunshine  and  flowers  and  birds — 
and  happiness.  But  it  is  there  for  me  now, 
steadfast,  loyal,  abiding.  I  know  now  why  I 
love  the  hills  more  than  the  ocean.  They  are 
so  fixed,  so  permanent;  unchanging,  unmoving; 
while  the  ocean  storms  and  calms,  thunders  and 
ripples,  lures  you  to  its  depths  and — drowns 
you." 

John  knew  the  inner  meaning  of  her  words. 
Sincerity  and  deceit.  Trustworthiness  and 
treachery.  Genuineness  and  make-believe. 

"Was  it  difficult  for  you  to  keep  your  prom 
ise?"  he  asked,  breaking  the  silence  that  had 
followed  after  she  had  spoken. 

"To  understand  that  you  did  what  you 
thought  was  right?"  she  inquired.  He  nodded. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  never  doubted  that.     But 


394  SPRING  STREET 

I  was  never  really  put  to  the  test.  My  decision 
was  made  before  I  thought  of  what  I  had 
promised  you." 

She  paused  and  then,  lifting  her  eyes  to  meet 
his,  she  continued: 

uYou  see,  I  believe  there  is  only  one  real 
love  between  a  man  and  a  woman  and  that  is 
the  love  that  endures  all  things.  I  have  always 
thought — and  I  still  do — that  a  woman  who 
sincerely  loves  a  man  will  stay  by  his  side  even 
if  the  whole  world  is  against  him.  Unless  a 
woman  can  do  that  willingly,  gladly,  I  do  not 
believe  that  it  is  real  love. 

"He  came  .here  early  Sunday  morning  and 
asked  me  to  go  away  with  him.  I  could  not 
understand  and  he  did  not  explain.  He  simply 
said  that  something  had  happened  that  would 
prevent  him  from  ever  becoming  mayor  of  Los 
Angeles  and  that  he  was  going  away,  never  to 
return. 

1  'If  you  love  me,  you  will  come  with  me,' 
he  said.  I  was  bewildered,  of  course,  but  I 
knew  that  he  was  right.  It  was  the  test,  a  test 
far  greater  than  I  had  ever  dreamed  would 
come  to  me. 

"I  asked  him  why  it  was  that  he  should  be 
compelled  to  leave  the  city.  He  assured  me 
that  he  had  committed  no  crime.  He  was  very 
earnest  as  he  spoke  and  so  serious  that  I  knew 
something  terrible  had  happened.  He  declared 


SPRING  STREET  395 

again  and  again  that  he  loved  me  and  that  if 
I  loved  him  I  would  go  with  him  and  ask  no 
questions.  It  was  all  so  overwhelming  that  I 
begged  him  to  leave  me,  to  let  me  decide  alone. 

"  'I  will  let  you  know,  tonight,'  I  told  him. 
'Unless  you  hear  from  me  you  will  know  that 
I  have  decided  I  cannot  do  what  you  have 
asked  me.' 

"Soon  after  he  was  gone  I  realized  that — 
that  I  did  not  love  him  with  the  one  great  love. 
I  knew  that  I  didn't  because  I  had  not  thrown 
myself  into  his  arms  and  told  him,  as  Ruth 
told  Naomi,  Tor  whither  thou  goest  I  will  go; 
and  where  thou  lodgest  I  will  lodge.' 

"I  need  not  tell  you  in  details  of  how  bewil 
dered  I  was  by  his  strange  request  and  what  I 
went  through  when  I  found  that  I  did  not 
really  love  him.  Of  course,  I  tried  to  imagine 
what  had  occurred  that  caused  him  to  ask  me 
to  leave  everything  and  go  away  with  him. 
Whatever  it  was,  I  felt  it  was  cowardly  of  him 
to  leave  unless  it  was  all  his  own  fault. 

"So  he  did  not  hear  from  me  last  night  and 
this  morning  I  read  of  what  he  stands  accused. 
But  I  was  prepared.  I  had  chosen  my  course 
and  what  I  read  only  made  me  certain  that  I 
was  right;  that  I  did  not  truly  love  him,  never 
had  and  never  could.  I  pitied  his  weakness. 
I  could  see  how  he  had  gone  astray.  You  see, 
I  have  often  wondered  how  it  was  he  had 


396  SPRING  STREET 

money  so  suddenly  after  everything  he  once 
had  had  gone  from  him.  The  source  of  his 
wealth  was  always  a  mystery  to  me." 

She  paused  and  looking  toward  the  casement 
window  with  its  red  geraniums,  she  added, 
softly:  "That  is  my  story.  That  is  what  has 
happened." 

In  the  silence  that  followed  they  were  both 
startled  to  hear  footsteps  on  the  porch  outside. 
Consuello  looked  toward  him,  quickly,  with  an 
expression  that  warned  him.  The  door  swung 
open  and  Gibson  stepped  in,  closing  it  behind 
him. 

"I  thought  I'd  find  you  here,"  he  said. 

His  face  was  pale  and  a  smile  that  was  half 
a  sneer  was  on  his  lips  as  he  stood  looking  at 
them.  John  was  on  his  feet  facing  him  and  a 
glance  showed  that  Consuello  had  also  risen 
from  her  chair  at  Gibson's  unexpected  entrance. 

"The  girl  who  said  that  she  loved  me  and 
the  man  who  pretended  he  was  my  friend," 
said  Gibson,  sarcastically. 

John's  muscles  tightened  and  he  bit  his  lip 
to  restrain  the  words  of  warning  to  Gibson  that 
he  was  about  to  speak. 

"If  you  have  come  here  to "  he  heard 

Consuello  say,  coolly,  evenly. 

"I  came  here  to  say  good-by  to  you,"  Gibson 
interrupted,  "and  to  make  certain  that  there 
had  not  been  some  mistake.  I  thought  you 


SPRING  STREET  397 

might  have  tried  to  reach  me  last  night  and 
failed,  or  that  you  might  have  changed  your 
mind."  He  paused  a  moment  before  adding, 
"But  I  know  better  now." 

uYou  should  have  known  last  night,"  Con- 
suello  said.  uYou  should  have  known  that  if 
I  had  decided  to  do  what  you  asked  me  I 
would  have  come  to  you,  found  you  wherever 
you  were." 

"I  should  have  known  months  ago,  if  I  had 
not  been  such  a  blind  fool,"  said  Gibson 
bitterly. 

"You  were  a  blind  fool,"  said  Consuello, 
"but  not  as  I  suspect  you  think.  You  were 
blinded  by  your  own  selfish  indolence.  You 
said  a  moment  ago  that  I  told  you  I  loved  you. 
I  did  tell  you  that  and  I  thought  that  I  meant 
it,  but  when  I  found  that  I  could  not  go  with 
you  as  you  asked  I  knew  I  had  been  mistaken. 
You  must  remember  that  I  decided  against  you 
before  I  knew  the  reason  you  wanted  me  to 
leave." 

The  half-sarcastic  smile  curled  Gibson's  lips. 

"Then  you'll  admit  that  something  else — 
someone  else,  perhaps "  he  said. 

"I  saw  no  one,  except  Betty,  from  the  time 
you  left  until  Mr.  Gallant  came  this  evening," 
Consuello  said.  "I'm  thankful  that  I  was  able 
to  decide  before  I  read  what  was  in  the  paper 
today.  Reggie,  how  often  have  I  told  you  my 


398  SPRING  STREET 

conception  of  love.  Don't  you  know  that  if  I 
cared  for  you  nothing  would  have  kept  me 
from  you  ?  I  cannot  tell  you  why  it  was ;  I  can 
only  tell  you  how.  I  knew  as  soon  as  I  real 
ized  that  I  had  refused  to  go  with  you  blindly 
that  it  was  not  love,  the  real  love,  that  I  had 
in  my  heart  for  you." 

"And  suppose  I  had  not  asked  you  to  go 
away  with  me  ?  Suppose  I  came  to  you  tonight 
and  asked  you  to  stand  by  me,  right  here  in 
Los  Angeles?" 

"It  would  have  been  the  same,"  Consuello 
replied  quietly.  "I  would  have  given  you  the 


same  answer." 


As  she  spoke  Gibson  gazed  at  her  intently 
and  the  anger  that  had  smouldered  in  his  eyes 
disappeared  and  he  forced  a  smile  to  his  lips 
as  he  turned  toward  John. 

"Gallant,"  he  said,  "I  saw7  you  take  terrible 
punishment  one  night  and  stagger  to  your  feet 
until  you  were  knocked  senseless.  I  admired 
you  that  night,  Gallant;  I  envied  your  courage. 
When  Charlie  Murray  made  his  little  talk  I 
think  I  was  the  first  to  respond.  If  you  found 
a  $50  bill  in  what  Charlie  turned  over  to  you, 
you  know  now  who  tossed  it  into  the  ring." 
He  paused,  looked  to  the  floor  and  then  back 
into  John's  face. 

"Tonight  you  have  watched  me  take  my  pun- 


SPRING  STREET  399 

ishment,"  he  continued.  "I  stood  on  my  feet 
and  cheered  when  you  came  back  into  the  ring 
and  when  you  left.  I  don't  want  pity  or  sym 
pathy,  but  I  want  you  to  have  a  cheer  in  your 
heart  for  me  when  I  go." 

Gibson's  change  from  sarcasm  and  bitterness 
to  a  show  of  manliness  relieved  the  tenseness 
of  the  situation.  Consuello  sank  into  a  chair 
and  gazing  into  the  fireplace,  where  flames  had 
once  sparkled  as  bright  as  her  romance  with 
Gibson  and  now  only  cold  ashes  remained,  left 
the  two  men  facing  each  other. 

"No  one  has  ever  doubted  your  courage," 
John  said. 

"I  hope  you  do  not  think  that  I  had  any 
thing  to  do  with  the  death  of  Murphy  or  the 
attack  upon  yourself,"  said  Gibson.  "If  I  had 
known  what -they  were  going  to  do  I  would 
have  died  fighting  them.  I  took  Cummings' 
gun  from  him  when  he  fired  at  you  and  the 
others  in  the  automobile.  From  that  minute 
I  have  neither  seen  nor  heard  from  him.  If  I 
ever  run  across  him  I'll  bring  him  back  and 
surrender  him  to  the  district  attorney.  That 
is  the  way  I  hope  to  win  condonement  for  what 
I've  done.  That  is  where  I'm  going  when  I 
leave  here  tonight,  to  search  for  him,  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth  if  it  is  necessary." 

"If  ever,  while  you're  away,  you  need  help, 


400  SPRING  STREET 

• 

let  me  know,"  John  said,  with  an  impulsive 
desire  to  take  Gibson's  hand.  But  he  stood 
still,  waiting  for  the  other  to  continue. 

"When  I  came  here  tonight  and  found  you 
two  together  I  said  things  that  I'm  sorry  ever 
escaped  my  lips,"  said  Gibson.  "I  was  a  cad 
and  no  matter  what  you  may  think  of  me  for 
the  other  things  I've  done,  I  want  you  to 
forgive  me — both  of  you — for  that  alone." 

Their  silence  assured  him  that  they  were 
anxious  to  forget  his  display  of  bitterness. 

"Will  you  do  me  this  favor,  Gallant?"  he 
continued.  "Will  you  publish  tomorrow  that  you 
have  seen  me  and  that  I've  started  search  for 
Cummings  and  won't  return  to  Los  Angeles 
until  I  bring  him  back  with  me?  Just  that 
much  and  no  more." 

"That  much  and  no  more,"  John  promised. 

Then  Gibson  turned  toward  Consuello.  She 
had  bowed  her  head  in  her  hand.  He  hesi 
tated  a  moment  and  then  walked  slowly  to  the 
side  of  her  chair. 

"Good-by,  Conny,"  he  said. 

She  looked  up  at  him,  tears  brimming  in  her 
eyes,  her  under  lip  caught  between  her  teeth. 
He  tried  to  force  a  smile  to  his  lips,  but  it 
balked. 

"Good-by,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  trembled. 

He  turned  away  quickly,  as  if  he  felt  he 
could  not  trust  himself  to  be  at  her  side  a 


SPRING  STREET  401 

second  longer.  He  stopped  again,  facing 
John. 

"Just  one  thing  more,  Gallant,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  said  John,  his  voice  queerly  out  of 
pitch. 

Gibson  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 

"You  love  her,  don't  you?"  he  asked. 

Unable  to  speak  what  was  in  his  heart,  John 
stood  silent.  He  moistened  his  lips  with  his 
tongue  and  wondered  why  it  was  he  could  not 
shout  back  his  answer.  Flustered  by  the  bold 
ness  of  the  question  put  to  him  so  directly,  a 
thought  flashed  into  his  mind  of  Betty's  frank 
declaration  that  she  knew  he  loved  Consuello. 
Then  he  discovered  the  reason  why  his  mother 
had  been  so  perturbed  by  his  frequent  meetings 
with  her.  She,  too,  undoubtedly  knew  he  was 
in  love ! 

While  these  thoughts  were  racing  through 
his  head,  Gibson  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"You  need  not  answer,  Gallant,"  he  said, 
"because  your  silence  is  enough.  Regardless 
of  how  incongruous  it  seems  in  view  of  the 
great  wrong  I  have  done  her,  I  love  her,  too. 
And,  because  I  love  her  I  can  tell  that  you  do. 
I  can  see  it  by  the  way  you  speak  to  her,  the  way 
you  look  at  her  and  unless  I  am  greatly  mis 
taken  she  knows  it  as  well  as  you  and  I  do." 

He  grasped  John's  left  hand  in  his  own. 

"Take  care  of  her,  Gallant;  love  her  and 


402  SPRING  STREET 

try  to  make  her  happy,"  he  said.  He  turned 
and  walked  to  the  door,  leaving  John  speech 
less  and  motionless,  staring  after  him.  At  the 
threshold  he  wheeled  to  face  them  again. 

"Exit,  the  villain,"  he  said  slowly  and  smil 
ing. 

The  door  closed  behind  him  and  his  foot 
steps,  taking  him  steadily,  not  too  fast,  not  too 
slowly,  from  the  house,  diminished  until  the 
only  sound  audible  in  the  room  was  the  ticking 
of  the  clock  on  the  mantel  of  the  fireplace. 

John,  his  back  toward  Consuello,  his  eyes  on 
the  door,  wondering  whether  it  was  all  a 
dream,  a  cheer  in  his  heart  for  the  man  who 
had  left  them  so  dramatically,  feared  to  move. 

"Exit,  the  villain" — Gibson's  last  words — 
echoed  in  his  brain. 

He  imagined  he  heard  Brennan  saying:  "A 
grandstander,  a  grandstander  to  the  last." 

When  he  finally  turned  around,  Consuello 
was  standing  by  the  open  casement  window, 
looking  out  into  the  night,  her  fingers  touching 
the  petals  of  the  geraniums  on  the  sill,  in  the 
same  position  in  which  she  had  stood  when  she 
had  recited  to  him  the  little  verse  with  its 
simple,  homely  philosophy. 

He  moved  to  her  side,  marveling  at  her 
unaffected  beauty. 

Looking  out  of  the  window  he  saw  that  the 
moon,  which  had  been  hidden  by  the  clouds  an 


SPRING  STREET  403 

hour  before,  had  crested  her  "green  and 
friendly  hill"  with  an  outline  of  silvery-blue. 

Something  in  her  pose  that  suggested  to  him 
that  she  was  waiting  for  him  to  speak  gave 
him  the  courage.  Yet  he  was  afraid  to  look 
at  her  as  he  spoke,  afraid  to  see  what  effect 
his  words  had  upon  her. 

"I  do — love  you,"  he  said. 

That  little  gasp  as  she  caught  her  breath, 
what  did  it  mean?  Still  unable  to  face  her,  he 
continued : 

"He  knew  it;  Betty  knows  it;  mother  knows 
it  and  I  want  the  whole  world  to  know  it — I 
love  you."  He  could  say  no  more. 

Gently,  caressingly,  her  small  white  fingers 
touched  his  unbandaged  hand.  Tremulously 
he  turned  his  head  and  saw  her  answer  in  her 
eyes  and  slowly,  almost  reverently,  he  lifted 
her  hand  to  his  lips.  A  mocking  bird  broke 
into  joyous  song  in  a  tree  outside,  a  golden 
flood  of  music  to  mock  the  silent  song  in  his 

heart. 

*     *     * 

Lights  were  shining  through  the  curtains 
on  the  windows  of  the  Sprockett  house  and  his 
mother  was  waiting  up  for  him  when  he 
returned  home.  As  he  took  her  in  his  arms 
to  kiss  her  forehead  tenderly  he  had  a  fantasy 
that  the  wonderfulness  of  his  requited  love 
had  miraculously  altered  his  mother's  opinion 


404  SPRING  STREET 

of  Consuello.     But  it  was  a  fantasy,  only  that. 

"Mother,  dearest,"  he  whispered,  "I'm  the 
happiest  man  in  the  world,  tonight." 

His  mother  drew  back  from  him  and  the 
intuition  that  had  advised  her  that  her  son 
was  in  love  with  Consuello,  long  before  he 
realized  it  himself,  told  her  the  reason  for  his 
happiness.  She  turned  away  and  pressing  a 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes  left  him  with  a  dis 
cordant  note  breaking  the  harmony  of  his 
ecstasy. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

A  DOCTOR  is  awarded  his  diploma;  a 
•^*- lawyer  is  admitted  to  the  bar;  a  preacher 
is  given  a  pulpit;  an  actor  rises  from  under 
study  to  the  leading  role ;  a  newspaper  reporter 
is  given  a  uby-line"  and  sees  his  name  over  a 
story  for  the  first  time. 

Under  the  big  head-line.  "Gibson  Found; 
Quits  Race,"  and  over  the  announcement  Gib 
son  had  authorized — "that  much  and  no  more" 
— appeared  the  magic  words,  "By  John  Gal 
lant." 

By  that  simple  token  he  passed  automatically 
from  the  position  of  "cub"  to  be  a  full-fledged 
reporter. 

The  only  ceremony  marking  the  graduation 
was  when  Brennan,  leaning  over  his  shoulder 
as  he  gazed  at  his  "by-line,"  said  in  his  ear: 

"Looks  pretty  nice,  doesn't  it?" 

The  story  stated  plainly  that  Gibson  author 
ized  the  publication  of  the  statement  that  he 
wras  leaving  Los  Angeles  to  search  for  "Gink" 
Cummings  and  did  not  intend  returning  until 
he  brought  Cummings  back  with  him  to  face 
trial  for  the  murder  of  Murphy,  as  co-defen 
dant  with  "Slim"  Gray  and  his  two  "bashers." 
John  explained  to  P.  Q.  that  he  had  given 


406  SPRING  STREET 

his  word  of  honor  that  he  would  print  nothing 
but  the  brief  announcement.  With  the  city 
editor's  consent  he  omitted  mentioning  where 
he  had  met  Gibson  and  under  what  circum 
stances  Gibson  had  talked  with  him. 

"A  newspaper  reporter's  word  must  be  as 
good  as  his  bond,"  said  P.  Q.  ''Remember, 
Gallant,  never  to  print  what  you  have  received 
in  confidence.  I  fired  more  than  one  reporter 
because  he  broke  his  word,  although  in  break 
ing  it  he  gave  us  a  whale  of  an  exclusive  story." 

Shortly  after  the  first  edition  was  on  the 
streets,  John  looked  up  from  his  typewriter  to 
find  Mrs.  Sprockett  standing  beside  his  desk, 
about  to  speak  to  him.  Nervous,  distressed, 
her  eyes  reddened  from  a  sleepless  night  of 
weeping,  she  asked  him  if  he  was  too  busy  to 
spare  her  a  moment. 

"Not  at  all,"  he  said,  rising  and  placing  a 
chair  for  her  beside  his  desk. 

Fumbling  with  her  handkerchief  and  appear 
ing  apologetic  for  having  spoken  to  him  so 
sharply  the  night  before,  she  told  him  that 
Alma  had  been  away  from  home  all  night  and 
had  not  returned  yet. 

"Then,  Mrs.  Sprockett,  there's  only  one 
thing  for  you  to  do,"  he  said,  "and  that  is  to 
inform  the  police." 

"I  have  just  come  from  the  police  station," 
Mrs.  Sprockett  said.  "They  sent  me  here. 


SPRING  STREET  407 

They  told  me  that  the  best  way  to  find  a 
missing  girl  was  through  the  newspapers. 
They  said  that  in  99  cases  out  of  100  girls  who 
disappear  are  either  found  or  traced  by  the 
newspapers  and  newspaper  men. 

<4Of  course,  you  know  how  much  I  regret 
having  anything  concerning  Alma  appear  in 
the  newspapers.  I  thought  there  was  some 
other  way  to  find  her,  some  way  that  would 
attract  less  attention.  But  if  it  has  to  be,  it  has 
to  be,  and  I'll  do  anything  to  bring  my  little 
girl  back  to  us." 

"You  will  do  the  sensible  thing  if  you  per 
mit  the  publication  of  Alma's  picture  and  a 
brief  story  that  she  is  missing,"  John  said. 

Mrs.  Sprockett  drew  from  her  bag  a  photo 
graph  of  her  daughter  and  gave  John  a 
description  of  her  and  the  facts  relative  to  her 
disappearance. 

"If  anything  has  happened  to  her  it  will  kill 
me,"  she  said,  as  she  rose  to  go.  "I'll  owe 
a  debt  I  can  never  repay  to  the  one  who  brings 
her  back  to  me." 

The  photograph  of  Alma  and  the  brief 
story  that  went  with  it  appeared  in  the  second 
edition  and  John  wondered  if  Mrs.  Sprockett's 
husband  had  dared  to  make  the  suggestion 
that  had  sent  his  wife  to  the  police. 

Soon  after  Mrs.  Sprockett  left  the  office, 
John,  unable  to  wait  a  minute  longer  without 


408  SPRING  STREET 

hearing  her  voice,  telephoned  to  Consuello's 
home.  He  wanted  to  tell  her  again  that  he 
loved  her,  and  again  and  again,  and  he  wanted 
to  hear  her  tell  him,  as  she  had  before  he 
left  her,  that  her  "dreamings  had  come  true, 
the  brightest  and  the  best."  But  it  was  Betty 
instead  of  Consuello  who  answered  his  call. 

"Conny  is  at  the  studio,"  Betty  said.  "She 
was  called  there  unexpectedly  concerning  some 
thing  about  her  new  picture." 

"Did  she  tell  you  anything  before  she  left?" 
he  asked. 

Betty  laughed. 

"She  told  me  everything,"  she  replied. 

"And  is  she  happy?"  he  asked. 

"Happier  than  I  have  ever  seen  her,"  Betty 
assured  him.  "I'll  tell  her  that  you  called." 

"That  I  called  and  that  I "  he  stopped 

himself. 

"Love  her,"  Betty  finished  for  him. 

"More  and  more  every  minute,"  he  said,  not 
to  be  abashed  by  Betty's  good  natured  pre- 
sumptuousness. 

But  whenever  throughout  the  day  his 
thoughts  of  Consuello  and  their  great  love 
brought  him  happiness,  the  haunting  realiza 
tion  that  his  mother  still  clung  to  her  prejudice 
against  her  occupation  wore  upon  him.  He 
had  gone  to  his  room  after  she  had  left  him 
the  night  before  and  at  breakfast  there  had 


SPRING  STREET  409 

been  a  strained  effort  by  both  of  them  to  avoid 
recalling  the  cause  for  her  distress.  He  had 
pleaded  and  begged  her  so  often  to  overcome 
her  intolerant  dislike  for  Consuello  that  he 
was  beginning  to  fear  he  would  never  be  able 
to  win  her  over.  Not  for  much  longer,  he 
realized,  could  he  keep  his  mother's  feelings 
against  her  from  Consuello. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  clatter  of 
the  telegraph  instruments  and  the  typewriter 
had  lulled,  and  tired  men  lounged,  squatted  on 
desks  and  tilted  back  in  chairs  in  the  local 
room  discussing  the  events  of  the  day,  John 
and  Brennan  were  summoned  to  the  publish 
er's  private  office.  There  they  were  confronted 
by  P.  Q.  and  the  "chief,"  the  managing  editor 
and  the  news  editor,  the  quartet  often  referred 
to  by  the  reporters  as  the  "brain  trust."  There 
John  and  Brennan  received  checks  for  $500 
each  and  were  informed  that  their  salaries  had 
been  doubled,  the  $500  being  a  bonus  for  their 
work  in  exposing  the  Gibson-Cummings  plot. 

On  his  way  home  John  decided  to  make  one 
final  effort  to  change  his  mother's  attitude 
toward  Consuello.  He  planned  it  all  very 
carefully.  First  he  would  tell  her  of  how  his 
salary  had  been  doubled  and  then  he  would 
turn  over  to  her  the  bonus  check  to  be  banked. 
Then  he  would  take  her  in  his  arms  and  beg 
her  to  listen  while  he  told  her  of  the  love 


410  SPRING  STREET 

between  him  and  Consuello,  whom  he  was  to 
meet  later  in  the  evening. 

He  was  absorbed  in  thinking  of  everything 
he  would  say  to  his  mother  when  he  got  off 
the  street  car  at  the  corner  and  walked  toward 
his  home.  It  was  not  until  he  was  within  a 
quarter  of  a  block  from  his  home  when  he 
saw  something  that  brought  him  to  a  sharp 
halt.  Scarcely  able  to  believe  what  was  before 
his  eyes,  he  stood  stock-still  for  a  moment  and 
his  worry  left  him  like  a  weight  had  been  lifted 
from  his  soul. 

On  the  sidewalk  was  Mrs.  Sprockett  with 
the  lost  Alma  clasped  in  her  arms.  Mother 
and  daughter  were  alternately  laughing  and 
crying  and  kissing  each  other.  Near  them 
stood  Mrs.  Sprocket's  husband,  bouncing  the 
Sprockett  baby  in  his  arms  and  smiling  and 
nodding  his  head  to  Alma  whenever  her  face 
showed  to  him  from  her  mother's  embrace. 

And  a  few  feet  from  the  re-united  mother 
and  her  daughter  were  Consuello  and  his 
mother!  Mrs.  Gallant  was  smiling  and  pat 
ting  Consuello's  hand,  which  she  held  in  both 
her  own ! 

Wondering  what  had  happened  to  bring 
about  such  a  happy  scene,  John  strode  toward 
it,  smiling  his  happiest.  He  was  about  to 
speak  when  Mrs.  Sprockett,  allowing  Alma 
to  go  to  her  father,  grasped  Consuello's  hand 


SPRING  STREET  411 

and  holding  it  tight  against  her  breast,  cried 
softly: 

"My  dear,  my  dear,  oh,  what  you  have 
done  for  us!  My  dear,  my  dear." 

He  turned  to  his  mother  for  an  explanation. 

"Consuello  brought  Alma  back,"  Mrs.  Gal 
lant  said.  Then,  lifting  her  face  to  kiss  him, 
she  whispered,  "Forgive  me,  my  boy,  for  my 
unkindness  to  her  and  to  you." 

She  turned  to  Consuello. 

"Come,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "you  must  have 
dinner  with  us." 

Mrs.  Sprockett  hurried  after  her  husband, 
who  had  started  toward  their  home  with  the 
baby  on  one  arm  and  the  other  around  Alma's 
shoulders.  John  took  Consuello's  hand  and 
whispered  to  her,  "You  wonderful,  wonderful 
girl." 

Inside,  while  Mrs.  Gallant  rearranged  the 
dinner  table  and  prepared  portions  for  three 
instead  of  two,  she  related  to  him  what  had 
occurred. 

"On  the  way  to  the  studio  this  morning," 
she  said,  "I  bought  a  copy  of  your  paper  to 
read  what  you  had  written  about — about  what 
happened  last  night.  I  saw  in  the  paper  the 
photograph  of  this  girl  who  was  missing  and, 
just  by  chance,  I  noticed  the  address  of  her 
home  and  realized  it  must  be  close  to  your 
own.  For  that  reason,  I  suppose,  I.  gave  the 


412  SPRING  STREET 

picture  more  than  a  passing  glance,   although 
I  thought  little  of  it. 

"I  had  no  sooner  arrived  at  the  studio  than 
this  girl  came  running  up  to  me  and  begged  me 
to  help  her  become  a  motion  picture  actress. 
Because  the  picture  was  still  fresh  in  my  mind 
I  recognized  her,  although  it  was  some  time 
before  I  got  her  to  admit  that  she  had  run 
away  from  home.  I  talked  to  her  and  told 
her  what  a  mistake  she  had  made  and  finally 
she  said  that,  if  I  wanted  her  to,  she  would 
return  home.  So  I  brought  her  home  and, 
truly,  you  would  think  I  had  done  something 
wonderful  by  the  way  your  mother  and  Mrs. 
Sprockett  thanked  me." 

uYou  did,"  he  said,  realizing  that  by  her 
act  of  bringing  home  the  runaway  Alma  she 
had,  unknowingly,  won  his  mother  to  her. 

"Why?"  she  asked. 

"Because     everything    you    do,     everything 
about  you   is  wonderful,"   he   said,   justifying 
himself  for  the  evasion  by  knowing  that  his 
answer  was  truthful,  at  least. 
*     *     *     *     * 

In  his  imagination  John  enjoyed  picturing 
the  four  principal  streets  of  Los  Angeles — 
Broadway,  Spring,  Main  and  Hill — as  differ 
ent  types  of  girls  much  in  the  same  way  that 
he  looked  upon  houses,  particularly  old  ones, 
as  people. 


SPRING  STREET  413 

Broadway  he  pictured  as  the  ultra-modern 
girl,  gay,  sparkling,  witty,  brilliant,  tempera 
mental;  busily  enjoying  every  minute  of  life; 
clad  always  in  the  most  down-to-the-moment 
styles.  He  imagined  her  as  popular,  colorful, 
a  wonderful  companion  for  a  happy,  festive 
mood;  a  street  that  looked  upon  her  compan 
ion  streets  as  a  debutante  looks  upon  her 
older  sisters. 

Her  faults  he  placed  as  tempestuous,  born 
of  an  excess  of  nervous  energy;  a  desire  to 
stay  up  too  late  and  keep  others  up  with  her; 
an  insatiable  love  for  beautiful,  costly  things; 
a  super-abundance  of  light-heartedness  and  a 
touch  of  light-headedness  and  a  spirit  of  utter 
irresponsibility. 

A  tempting  street,  a  flirting  street,  almost  a 
flapper  street. 

Hill  street  he  thought  of  as  older,  quieter, 
more  thoughtful  and  sedate;  a  book-loving, 
home-loving  sort  of  a  girl;  mildly  reproving 
but  secretly  admiring  her  sister  street,  Broad 
way.  She  took  pride,  he  thought,  in  Pershing 
Square,  a  restful  spot  in  the  roar  of  the  down 
town  thoroughfares  that  was  like  a  cool  hand 
on  a  fevered  brow,  a  kind  thought  for  others, 
a  touch  of  unselfishness. 

A  steady,calm,  sweet  girl;  the  kind  of  a  girl 
whom  everyone  knows  would  make  a  wonder 
ful  wife  and  mother,  but  whom  few  ever  marry. 


414  SPRING  STREET 

One  to  turn  to  in  trouble,  to  rely  upon  and  to 
always  find  ready  to  serve;  less  popular  than 
her  companion  streets,  gentler,  less  strident. 

A  beautiful  girl  in  church  on  Sunday  morn 
ings,  but  a  wallflower  at  a  dance. 

Main  street  was  the  girl  of  old  Los  Angeles, 
the  daughter  of  the  dons,  dark-eyed,  mysteri 
ous,  quaintly  and  languidly  entrancing,  he  pic 
tured  her  always  with  a  rose  in  her  midnight- 
black  hair,  perhaps  a  black  lace  fan  dangling 
at  her  wrist;  wearing  the  dress  of  other  days 
with  shining  black  beads  and  flounces  and 
trinkets — scorned  by  Miss  Broadway  as  so 
much  tinsel — conceding  only  her  rouge  and 
powder  to  modernism. 

Haughtily  proud  of  her  origin,  pointing  to 
her  birthplace — the  Plaza — in  its  shabby, 
tumbled-down  setting  as  the  birthplace  of  the 
city.  A  girl  speaking  Spanish,  softly  and 
beautifully,  and  knowing  instinctively  the  steps 
of  the  bewitching  La  Jota. 

A  hint  of  Carmen;  a  romantic  girl.  A  girl 
for  a  stroll  in  the  moonlight  and  a  kiss  upon 
taunting  lips. 

And  Spring  street! 

She  had  a  touch  of  each  of  her  companions, 
Broadway's  brilliant  beauty;  Hill  street's 
charming  character  and  Main  street's  pride 
of  ancestry.  And  yet  so  different  from  them 
all! 


SPRING  STREET  415 

An  independent  girl,  versatile  and  elusive; 
tasting  of  life  deeper  than  her  companions; 
with  rich  men  of  the  world  lovers.  Sophis 
ticated,  whole-hearted,  generous;  regretting 
with  those  who  loved  her  the  passing  of  the 
days  when  she  held  her  arms  open  to  bon 
vivants  and  epicures. 

A  chic  girl  whom  you  thought  of  as  having 
a  past.  An  adventurous  girl,  counting  among 
those  who  were  her  followers  a  host  of  varied 
characters  from  Le  Compte  Davis,  the  biblio 
phile  lawyer,  chuckling  over  Schopenhauer's 
pessimism  between  hours  of  study  over  his  law 
books,  to  Barney  Oldfield,  the  racing  driver, 
who  deserted  her  to  become  a  manufacturer; 
Jim  Jeffries,  former  world's  heavyweight  pu 
gilist,  who  was  her  companion  in  his  fame  and 
who  left  her  to  become  a  rancher;  and  Al 
Levy,  who  wined  her  and  dined  her  in  his 
cafe. 

All  this  musing  John  related  to  Consuello 
in  the  wonderfully  happy  evenings  that  fol 
lowed  Mrs.  Gallant's  conversion  from  dislik 
ing  to  loving  the  girl  he  adored. 

He  told  her  he  could  never  decide  which  of 
the  four  he  liked  best.  He  said  sometimes 
Broadway  had  shaken  her  bobbed  curls  at 
him,  smiling  and  bright,  pretty  and  stylish, 
and  he  was  captivated.  Then,  perhaps,  a  little 
remorseful  that  he  had  pursued  so  fleeting  a 


416  SPRING  STREET 

beauty  as  Broadway,  he  had  turned  to  Hill 
street  to  be  comforted  by  her  soundness  and 
to  tell  her,  in  his  heart,  that  she  was  a  "real" 
girl,  so  much  more  worth-while  than  her  light- 
hearted  sister,  who  wanted  to  be  going  and 
going  all  the  time. 

And  nights,  when  he  felt  a  longing  for  the 
stories  of  the  old  days,  or,  perhaps,  to  see  the 
intriguing  shadows  of  her  dark  eyes,  he  visited 
Main  street,  wandering  away  at  times  into 
Chinatown,  clinging  like  a  faithful  servant  to 
the  feet  of  the  daughter  of  the  dons. 

When  he  had  tired  of  all  three,  Broadway, 
Hill  and  Main,  he  told  her,  he  had  turned  to 
Spring  street  and  found  her  ever  alluring  and 
interesting.  It  was  there,  in  George  Blake's 
gymnasium,  that  he  had  trained  for  the  bout 
at  Vernon  and  it  was  there  that  "Gink"  Cum- 
mings  had  held  sway,  manipulating  Gibson 
like  a  puppet,  ruling  with  an  iron  hand,  order 
ing  his  gangsters  to  "bash"  whoever  opposed 
him  and  collecting  his  ill-gotten  tributes. 

"Do  you  remember,"  she  asked,  "that  day 
we  met  and  how  when  you  said  you  were 
frightened  and  embarrassed  I  told  you  that  I 
had  read  stories  of  reporters  who  never  knew 
fear  and  that  in  plays  and  books  the  reporter 
always  did  the  bravest  things?" 

He  smiled  back  to  her. 

"And  I  told  you  that  it  was  like  a  story  or 


SPRING  STREET  417 

a  play  when  you  rescued  me  from  the  servant 
who  had  asked  me  to  leave?"  he  added.  "I 
told  you  then  that  you  were  a  beautiful  hero 
ine  and  pointed  out  Gibson  to  you  as  the 
villain," 

uAnd  you  said  that  in  books  and  plays 
dreams  came  true  and  when  I  asked  you  what 
dream  you  wished  to  come  true  you  said,  'A 
rather  silly,  hopeless,  golden  sort  of  dream — 
a  dream  of  meeting  you  again,'  "  she  supple 
mented. 

"A  dream  that  came  true  far  more  wonder 
fully  than  I  ever  hoped  it  would,"  he  said. 

They  were  beside  her  open  casement  win 
dow.  It  was  a  warm,  bright  Sunday  morning 
and  in  a  few  minutes  they  would  leave  to  meet 
his  mother  for  the  long-deferred  visit  to  the 
home  of  Consuello's  parents. 

"There  have  been  stories  of  all  kinds,  told 
and  untold,  about  Spring  street,"  he  said,  "but 
do  you  know  the  one  I  like  best?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"The  story  you  told  to  me  of  how  it  re 
ceived  its  name,"  he  said.  "And  do  you  know 
why?" 

Again  she  shook  her  head. 

"Because  you  are  to  me  (Mi  Primavera' — 
My  Springtime." 

They  entered  the  waiting  automobile  to  be 
whirled  through  the  city  and  out  to  the 


418  SPRING  STREET 

romantic  hacienda  where  the  languorous  past 
so  strangely  and  sweetly  blended  with  the  vital 
present  and  the  throbbing  promise  of  a  future 
filled  with  love  and  life  together. 

The  motor  swung  around  a  corner  and  into 
a  throbbing  thoroughfare  down  the  long, 
crowded  course  of  which  was  pictured  in  an 
almost  perpetual  perspective  panorama  the 
rushing  torrent,  the  back-wash,  the  undertow, 
the  placid  pools  and  the  spectators  upon  the 
banks  of  the  gigantic  river  of  human  endeavor. 

Through  the  cinema  of  John  Gallant's  mind 
there  swept  a  thought  that  here  was  presented 
a  prophecy  and  a  promise.  Hand  in  hand 
they  would  meet  whatever  the  coming  days 
might  bring — toil,  failure,  happiness,  success. 
Love  was  the  magic  wand  that  made  them  all 
as  one. 

Steadily  he  clasped  her  warm,  trusting 
fingers  as  they  nestled  in  his  palm. 

"We  are  starting  down  our  Spring  street, 
Mi  Primavera,"  he  said. 

And  as  she  looked  up  into  his  ardent  eyes 
he  knew  that  all  his  fondest  dreams  were 
coming  true. 

THE   END. 


3 


BOOK 


LIB 


is 


^^eriod^PP^caUon  i8  ^JJ**  not  if 


,-  . 


M/)R  12 1984 


Clfi.  IB  1  2  *34 


YB 


S 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  LIBRARY 


